<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>For Those We Left Behind by ReiverReturns</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28452510">For Those We Left Behind</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/ReiverReturns/pseuds/ReiverReturns'>ReiverReturns</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Assassin's Creed - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Battle Couple, Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Childhood Memories, Eventual Romance, F/M, Fix-It, Flashbacks, Friends to Lovers, Mutual Pining, Romance, Slow Burn, Ubi did Vili dirty, shut up loser were going viking</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-05-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 22:42:55</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>58,634</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28452510</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/ReiverReturns/pseuds/ReiverReturns</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>For as long as he could remember, Vili Hemmingson had only three desires in life: to roam, to fight, and to feast. But are such simple pleasures enough to satiate his spirit? Freed from the burden of Jarldom and bonded to the Raven Clan, Vili must forge a new path; one where glory is not only won in blood and silver, but by the legacy we leave behind.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Eivor/Vili Hemmingson</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>135</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>240</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. New Beginnings</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This fic begins pre-Suthsexe arc, with Vili passing Snodinghamscire's Jarldom to Trygve and joining Eivor's merry band in Ravensthorpe. It broadly follows the events of the main story from then on, with some canon divergence.</p><p>Warnings for language, violence, and (eventual) M rated sexual content. Basically all the good Viking stuff.</p>
    </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This fic begins pre-Suthsexe arc, with Vili passing Snodinghamscire's Jarldom to Trygve and joining Eivor's merry band in Ravensthorpe. It broadly follows the events of the main story from then on, with some canon divergence as and when it suits to do so.</p><p>Warnings for language, violence, and (eventual) M rated sexual content. Basically all the good Viking stuff.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>If Vili has learned anything in his twenty-seven winters, it is that all time does not pass equally. </p><p>Endless dark winters stretch patience thin, testing the mettle of man and beast alike as they wait for the fleeting kiss of spring. When the thaw finally does come, days are nothing more than seconds, falling through men’s hands like sand as nature explodes into a frenzy of activity. Vikingrs set sail while the ice is still thin enough to break beneath their longships. Lumber is felled, buildings are raised. Animals fuck, give birth, and are slaughtered in time it takes to take a breath. And then the warmth is over, snow falls, and the long wait begins once more.</p><p>So too follows the lives of men. It is hard for Vili to comprehend how his life has changed in so short a span. One moment he fights the Picts to the north and feasts at the table of his father; the next he rides south with the land he has called home for ten winters at his back, the burden and expectations of Jarldom shed like an old cloak.</p><p>The thought both fuels and tempers the spirit. There is an unavoidable truth that Vili’s freedom was bought at cost of his father’s life. An inevitable exchange, perhaps, but this alone does not soften the blow. </p><p>
  <em> Was leaving my Jarldom behind the right choice? </em>
</p><p>The question bites at Vili like hard frost beneath snow. Trygve is a good man, sensible and capable of leading, but would he be able to inspire loyalty amongst the people? There is, Vili supposes, little point in worrying about that now. The ink has dried on that chapter of his life, and now he starts anew.</p><p>Eivor rides slightly ahead of Vili; an old habit that used to touch a nerve, but when Vili’s mind is on anything but the road, it's mercifully welcome. She has been quiet since they set off, bar a few friendly barbs about the speed of his horse and ability to stay atop it. Vili wonders if this is her way of trying to give him space to grieve, or if she is simply not used to having companionship.</p><p>If the strength of a fine weapon is created through the heating and cooling of the metal, so too is Eivor. She has always run hot and cold; from the moment they met she has been the fiercest and most loyal of friends, yet mysterious and guarded. </p><p>
  <em> Would I have chosen to leave, had Eivor advised against it? Would I have made the same choice had she not been there at all? </em>
</p><p>Eivor turns at just the wrong moment to catch Vili in his glass-eyed reverie. She tuts at him, pulling on the reins of her jet black steed to fall back in line with his pace.</p><p>“You make yourself a target for bandits with that look on your face, Arse-Stick. A glazed ham would have more presence.”</p><p>Vili blinks, hiding any more serious thoughts behind a good natured smile. “I thought one of the upsides of riding with a famous drengr was that bandits would think twice about attacking us. That is, unless, you’re worried that you would not have the skill to defeat any attackers without my help?” he jibes, the repartee coming quick and comfortably. Eivor’s eyes roll, and a ghost of a grin tickles the edges of her mouth. </p><p>“Hardly. Now come. We have much ground to cover, and I do not wish to camp in the snow."</p><p>---</p><p>They manage a few more hours of hard riding before the light finally fades. The motions of setting up camp together come as easily to Eivor and Vili as did when they were teens. There is no chatter, no bartering between tasks. Like a well oiled mechanism they construct shelter and a roaring fire before the night's chill sets in. Vili waters the horses while Eivor disappears into the woods with her bow in hand; it is not long before she re-emerges with a fat rabbit slung over her shoulder.</p><p>"Tell me stories of your adventures in England," she asks as she skins their dinner with long, deft strokes of her blade. Vili, not one to miss an opportunity to thread a tale, obliges.</p><p>As rabbit roasts, he tells her of his first journey to England along the whale road - the never-ending roar of the furious seas, and of Thor's anger as he struck the ship's mast with a bolt of white-hot lightning that light the night sky. He recalls in vivid detail the shape of men’s boots and the colour of their clothes as they were knocked headfirst from the ship, swallowed by tar-black water and dragged into the inky depths by the giantess Ran. He tells her how he nearly fainted with relief when finally planting his feet on solid ground after weeks on the water. She laughs at that part.</p><p>While they eat he spins the tale of wars and political intrigue during his father's conquest of Snotinghamscire. An easy physical fight to win, but a challenging battle for the hearts and minds of his Saxon kin.</p><p>They share a skin of mead, and Vili recalls the first time he set eyes on Hadrian’s wall. He tells her about fighting with the Picts, the wildness of their women, and how he came to know about both.</p><p>All the while Eivor listens intently, her chin on her knees, smiling wistfully. "You have written yourself quite a saga here, Vili," she says after some time.</p><p>"As have you, if the rumours are to be believed," Vili replies. It had not taken long for word of a yellow-haired drengr taming the leaders of southern England to reach them in the north. At first Vili had taken no notice of the tales - such stories were commonplace in the alehouses of Snotinghamscire (with the exception of the hero, who changed description every few seasons to keep the audience's interest.) But this drengr stayed. Stories became poems, and poems became songs. The yellow-haired turned into the Wolf-Kissed. And that was a hero Vili knew rather well.</p><p>He might have gone looking for her himself, had she not heeded the call from his father.</p><p>Vili takes the opportunity to lean back, relaxed and slightly hoarse from his tale telling. "I have shared many tales tonight, yet you sit here mute," he says. "What say you, Wolf-Kissed? Does your silver tongue spin tales as well as it does insults?"</p><p>Eivor gives a low chuckle and shakes her head. "We will have plenty of time to relive my saga. I would not want to share all my stories in one night, especially when so many are unfinished."</p><p>"Bah! A poor excuse." Vili raises an exasperated hand and Eivor laughs at the reaction, her normally guarded expression breaking into a drink-warmed moment of delight. She passes the mead, and Vili can taste the faint sweetness of her lips as he drinks.</p><p>A moment of silence falls between the old friends, filled only by the sound of crackling fire. Conscious of slipping once again into his grief-tinged thoughts, Vili turns the conversation towards the future.</p><p>"I look forward to seeing Ravensthorpe, you know. I suspect there will be as many faces I do not recognise as those I know."</p><p>Eivor nods. "Many have joined our settlement that did not travel with us from Norway."</p><p>"And what of those who were on your longboat? I look forward to seeing Sigurd and Dag again. They were as good friends to me as you, though as I recall, far more interested in telling the stories of their glorious exploits than living the adventures themselves."</p><p>Quite suddenly, Eivor’s expression changes. The warmth in her face dissipates, replaced with a frozen, unspoken pain. Vili’s stomach drops and his drink-soaked mouth dries. A wave of unease settles over him like a thick blanket, though it does nothing to keep out the night's chill.</p><p>"Vili I…" Eivor’s voice stumbles as she grasps for words. Her hand opens and closes reflexively, as if reaching for her weapon. "Sigurd is... missing. Taken and trapped by a witch named Fulke. He has been gone from Ravensthorpe for many months. This is why I have been travelling around England, to gain alliances with men like your father so I can find him and return him to his rightful home."</p><p>There is a sharpness to Eivor’s voice as she speaks, an anger she struggles to keep lidded colouring every word. Vili knows her well enough to see that she is as furious with herself as she is with her brother’s captor. He can feel the spark of fury ignite in him as well; a knee-jerk reaction he has learned to control, but comes no less naturally to him than breathing. </p><p>But there is no use feeding this anger. Not yet, anyway. There will be a time and a target for righting the wrongs inflicted on his old friends.</p><p>"And Dag?" he asks quietly.</p><p>Eivor blinks, and the tides of emotion flowing behind her eyes turn once more. Vili watches as she looks to her hands, the small muscles in her jaw twitching as she chews over unsaid words. It takes a long, long time for her to answer.</p><p>"I have tried to govern the Raven Clan as justly as I can during Sigurd's absence. I have balanced the needs of the clan with my plan to gather the allies we need to get Sigurd back.” She picks her words carefully, almost methodically; a vain attempt to cover the pain of loss in her voice. “Dag saw one side of my efforts, but not the other. He believed I was delaying Sigurd's rescue as a ploy to grab power for myself. He challenged me. I told him that I would never betray my brother, begged him not to force my hand..." </p><p>Eivor’s voice gets quieter and quieter until it is no more than a strained murmur. Her body coils tight and low like a trap waiting to spring. Her words pull Vili into an abrupt, unwelcome sobriety. </p><p>"Bastard should have taken the exile I offered," she finishes through her teeth. </p><p>The crackling fire fills the silence between them once more. Firelight casts long shadows over Eivor’s face, accentuating the deep scar across her cheek, and she momentarily looks far older than she is. </p><p>"This was his fate, Eivor.” Vili says quietly. It does not soothe the sting of his loss, but it is the truth. “He died fighting for his Jarl’s honour. No matter the circumstance, such actions are honourable." </p><p>Eivor makes a noise that sounds like a snort and purses her lips into a thin line. Vili gets the impression that there are very many things she would like to say in this moment, but chooses not to. </p><p>In Norway, Vili knew Dag as a cocksure, bawdy young man with a talent for fantastical tales and brute force. The sort of friend you appreciated on the battlefield, but even more so at the feasting table. His rivalry with Eivor was little more than a source of entertainment for Vili and Sigurd back then, with many pieces of silver won and lost betting on which one of them would emerge victorious from their latest disagreement. But even then, Vili admits, the venom was there. </p><p>He reaches out and places a hand on Eivor’s shoulder. He expects her to shrug it away, such is the expression on her face, but she allows it to sit there. </p><p>“Jealousy is a strange poison. From the age you could swing an axe, Dag was envious of you. You know this, though I know you do not wish to talk about it. Looking back, I think it might have always ended this way.”</p><p>Eivor pauses, then pats the hand on her shoulder in a silent gesture of thanks. Vili knows Eivor better than to think that his words have absolved her guilt and unease about Dag’s end, but for now they have soothed them. She takes their mead, swigs, and begins curls her shoulders back and forth in an attempt to untie her knotted muscles. </p><p>As he watches her, Vili allows himself to think for a fleeting moment of other ways he could help her release her tension. The night before his father’s funeral was a one off moment of passion, but he was only a man, and Eivor has grown to be quite striking in the years they have been apart. </p><p>Something on Vili’s face must have betrayed his thoughts, for when he looks at Eivor’s face he met with a puzzled expression. He turns away sharply, cursing himself. </p><p>Whatever Eivor is thinking, she does not betray it. She reaches for a sharpening stone pendant that hangs from her neck and, calm once more, begins to drag it across the cutting edge of her axe.</p><p>"I had hoped to enjoy our journey and only to tell you of these unhappy things when we arrived in Ravensthorpe, but now you know,” she tells him simply. “In time I will tell you all that has come before, but for now, I must lean on you to keep my crew in line if we have any hope of finding Sigurd. Will you do this for me?"</p><p>Vili nods, wondering if she knows that she needn't have asked. "Of course. I will always have your back, Eivor.”</p><p>Eivor chuckles; a sound Vili has missed.</p><p>“And I yours, Arse-Stick.”</p><p>---</p><p>
  <em> Vili threw a wild kick into a nearby snowdrift, venting a fury that had nowhere else to go. Why would his father bring him to Stavanger if just to exclude him? In his tenth winter, he was old enough to stand by Hemming Jarl in the longhouse. It wasn’t his fault that he had to resort to sneaking in to hear the conversation between King Styrbjorn and his men. Though, admittedly, perhaps his days of being able to do so were coming to an end: what had been cosy hiding spaces were becoming increasingly cramped as grew taller.  His latest endeavour had been cut short when one man spotted his foot hanging from a wooden beam above them. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Forgive me, my King,” Hemming had said while taking Vili by the scruff of the neck. “My son has many talents, but prime among them is a gift for mischief.” Vili knew his father’s tone would not be so jovial when he came looking for him later that night.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Still, it did not matter. Vili had heard enough of the conversation to grasp what brought his father to Stavanger in such a hurry. He replayed what he could in his mind as he paced the perimeter of the longhouse, piecing the story together like a fragmented puzzle. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “...Varin and Rosta both?” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “...The whole village burned to the ground, except....” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “We should attack now, my King...” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Of all the voices Vili heard, the King’s was the most distinctive. It was low and growling, exhaustion licking every word as he spoke.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Do not speak of war to me, Hemming, for I have had my glut of it,” he had snapped as Hemming tried to talk of counter offences. “Kjotve and his men are of no immediate threat while they feast on this victory. We have time to consider our next move.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “And what of Eivor?” Vili heard his father ask, taking heed of the King’s words rather quickly. “She lives?” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “She does. Just. In the escape she was attacked by a wolf, her neck torn open from jaw to collarbone by the time Sigurd found her.” King Styrbjorn breathed a long, heavy sigh. “The Gods must watch over this child, for I know no other who would have survived what she did that night.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> The room fell into hushed tones then. Vili had edged closer, straining to hear more, but his boot had slipped from the beam he balanced on and the game was afoot. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Tap. Tap. Tap. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>So deep were his thoughts that Vili did not immediately hear the noise coming from the training ground behind the longhouse. He approached quietly, expecting to see some of Stavanger’s famous drengrs up close, but what met his eyes was far less impressive. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> A child, at least a head shorter than him, stood alone in the muddy square. Their shoulders drew up and down with exertion, a wooden sword held loosely in their right hand. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Then the child roared, a pitiful sound, and charged towards a nearby dummy. They rained sword blows with a wild and haphazard fury, their balance untempered and wobbling. It was no surprise to Vili when they fell. Cautiously, he stepped out into the moonlight grounds. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “You’re holding the sword all wrong, you know. And your stance is weak.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> The figure didn’t move, but bellowed with the same pitiful voice. “Go away!” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “All I’m saying is that if you try that with anything more alive than a dummy you’ll have more to worry about than…”  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Vili tailed off, now close enough to the child to see them properly through the evening gloom. They were dirty, sword hand red raw and cropped hair full of dust and sweat. The ribbons of cloth wrapped around their neck were damp and red from exertion and blood. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “You’re the girl they were talking about,” Vili said with blunt surprise. “The one mauled by a wolf. By what the King said, I thought you were half dead.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “My name is Eivor,” the girl replied through a mouth of gritted teeth. Her wrist flicked again; a feeble attempt at a sword swing which Vili easily overstepped. “Now leave me alone!” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Vili looked around. The training ground was all but silent, bar the two of them. It didn’t feel right to leave her. After a moment’s thought he held an arm out to her, and was surprised when she took it. Eivor staggered as she rose, and Vili could see that her left arm was slinged. That would go some ways to explaining her terrible balance.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> He reached down to grab the training sword. Eivor made a strangled sound when he did, but fell quiet as Vili planted his feet and crouched low, his arm holding the sword perpendicular to his body just as his father showed him. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Your power comes as much from your legs and it does your arms, so you must ensure you are grounded. Look, see how I keep my feet apart?” he began. “And your sword should stay in front of you to fend off attacks. Doing this -” he raised the sword overhead in wild mimicry of Eivor’s previous swings, “- begs for a blade to the gut.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Vili did not know if it was minutes or hours until Hemming found him, still in the throes of his impromptu lesson on swordsmanship. Years later, all he remembered was while being cuffed around the ear and dragged off, Eivor calling on him to come back tomorrow and teach again. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> So he did. </em>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Birna and Rollo</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>To know the light and shade of battle is to know what it is to be Norse. Vili has known many warriors who lived their lives solely at the black edge of violence. Day after day, night after night, they would raid and kill and reap and burn. And then the fateful day would come where, through mistake or misfortune, a Saxon spear was lodged between their ribs. They would fall to the ground, lungs filling with blood, mouthing soundless words as they drowned. Little lives, all extinguished before their crewmates had even learned their name.</p><p>Such men seldom saw thirty winters. Even fewer entered into legend.</p><p>The best fighters know that true greatness can only be reached through a balance of blood and sweet wine. Conflicts are not won by the cutting edge of your blade, but by the strength of the bonds you share with the drengrs at your shoulder.</p><p>Those bonds were hard won in Snotingham. Beneath its veneer of beauty, Vili spent many seasons watching the land eat through Norse, Danes, and Saxons like a ravenous wolf. But it does Vili no good to dwell on the place he left behind. Not when something entirely new lies ahead. </p><p>Life in Ravensthorpe thrives with no prompt or coaxing. The settlement overspills with berry-laden bushes, a river full of trout, the smell of newly cut lumber, and the screams of children chasing the tails of dogs. It brims with the promise of stories untold, adventures to be had, and riches to be won.</p><p>As they approach the settlement Vili feels an unusual tickling in his stomach, a giddiness he has not felt since he was a boy. He will like it here, he thinks. At least for a time.</p><p>Eivor too seems rejuvenated. They have journeyed far and carry the weariness of many days on the road, yet her face lights up as the familiar village comes into view. “We came across this place when we first landed, it was a skeleton of one of Ragnar Lothbrok’s abandoned camps,” she tells him with a bright enthusiasm. “Ravensthorpe grows quickly. Come next winter it shall look completely different. Bigger, better.”</p><p>Vili hopes he shall be here to see it.</p><p>The raider's lodge by the docks is basic, but many long nights spent in the shadow of Hadrian’s Wall have taught Vili to forgo the luxuries usually afforded to a Jarl’s son. As he settles into his new home, Vili feels the absence of only one thing: company. </p><p>Eivor’s crew are gone. The dockmaster tells them that they set sail days ago, chasing the rumour of a horde of silver being held in a monastery to the south. Vili opens his mouth to spill a head full of questions on the unassuming dockmaster, but Eivor hushes him before he can speak.</p><p>“I think I can guess what happened,” she says as she looks at the watery space where her longship should be. “One of my men, Rollo, used to have his own crew. He is a fierce warrior with strong sea legs, but he is young, reckless, hot blooded. He would not miss a chance to fight and raid, even if I am absent.” Eivor flashes Vili a coy grin and nudges his side. “You will like him. He oftentimes reminds me of you, but without the wrinkles.”</p><p>---</p><p>In spite of the empty bedrolls beside his, Vili does not find it a challenge to fill his days. There are reunions with old friends and introductions to new faces, songs, dancing, and many, many cups of ale. His comfort comes so quickly that Vili almost forgets about the absent crew. It is no surprise, then, that the sudden sound of new voices from inside the raider’s lodgings come as something of a shock.</p><p>“I told you Birna, Eivor will not care a whit when she sees what we have brought back.”</p><p>“Sees what? A few boxes of supplies and a measly bag of Christian statues? Eivor will take that precious hammer of yours and club you with it. I told you we shouldn’t have gone Rollo!”</p><p>“It was a good tip.”</p><p>“It was a fishwives tale! And when Eivor realises it was you who took her ship - oh!”</p><p>The conversation between the two voices stops dead as Vili crosses the threshold, and a man and a woman scramble to their feet. The familiar hiss of metal rings, and quite suddenly Vili finds himself with a sword and a war hammer pointed squarely at his chest. He raises his hands in a slow, pacifying gesture.</p><p>“Peace, friends, I am an old friend of Eivor’s. My name is Vili. I come to fight and raid with you. I had hoped to meet you on my arrival, though it seems you were... otherwise occupied.”</p><p>The woman is the first to lower and reholster her weapon. Her face carries the scars of many battles, but she seems far kinder with a smile than she does with a scowl. As she steps closer Vili can smell the stench of old blood on her clothes, yet her eyes carry a certain glee; a childlike sparkle that goes some way to making Vili forget her threadbare appearance. She hums quiet, happy tunes as she begins to circle him.</p><p>“Well well well, friend of Eivor’s.” The pitch and cadence of her voice carries the spirit of song, but misses any semblance of melody. “It has been a long time since I’ve been graced the company of a man so tall, so strong. Like a great oak. I wonder what it might be like to climb your branches?”</p><p>Her companion rolls his eyes, and Vili suppresses a laugh. It is the sort of reaction only given when the observer has seen such antics many, many times over. </p><p>“I have been told it is exhilarating,” Vili replies, watching carefully as the woman prowls around him like a stalking cat. “Though many find the broken bones they suffer on the way back down again to not be worth the effort of trying.”</p><p>The woman comes to a halt in front of Vili and bears her yellowing teeth in a grin that stretches from ear to ear. “Oh, I like you! I can already tell we will get along,” she exclaims, extending her arm. Vili takes it and feels tough muscle under the frayed edge of her sleeve: he is willing to bet this ragtag warrior is stronger than she looks.</p><p>“I am Birna," the women says, "and this sour whelp,” she gestures with her free arm to the glowering younger man behind them, “is Rollo. What say you, little brother?”</p><p>“I say that if you call me your brother again, you may wake tomorrow to find your tongue separated from your mouth." Rollo spits. "We share no blood, and you are not my sister.” His face is young, younger than Vili expects for a man who has supposedly led his own crew across the seas and into battle. By mistake or by design, the venom in his voice seems to miss Birna’s ear entirely. Her shoulders roll with a sunny laugh.</p><p>“So rude! Tell me Vili, do crewmates not reside under one roof?”</p><p>Vili nods and gestures to the neat row of bedrolls next to them. “Evidently.”</p><p>“Do we fight together as one on the battlefield?”</p><p>“We should.”</p><p>“And in spite of all our differences, all our bickering, do we not protect one another?” Vili notices that Rollo’s lips have disappeared into a thin line. Birna takes no notice.</p><p>“I would hope so. After all, a man cannot sail a longboat alone.”</p><p>Birna hollers and swings her arms up in triumph. “Well, that sounds like a family to me! So little br-”</p><p>
  <em>Thunk.</em>
</p><p>There is a thunder crack of splintering wood as Rollo’s hammer hits the wall before falling to the ground. He pushes past Vili and Birna and disappears out the lodge, shouting violent profanities to Birna as he goes. For her part, Birna merely giggles and reaches down to pick up the hammer. It twirls like a baton in her blistered grip before throwing Vili a half-apologetic look.</p><p>“Pay no mind to Rollo, he’s as tightly wound as a ball of rope right now. He’ll be back to his old self once he’s received his hiding from Eivor.”</p><p>“Received a hiding? For what?”</p><p>The rasping voice behind them gives Vili and Birna both reason to jump, but it is Birna who makes noise first. She yelps, losing grip of the hammer and sending it swinging into the other wall. The wood does not splinter this time, but the bang of metal on lumber is just as loud as Vili turns to see Eivor standing behind him, her arms folded across her chest. Her face is carefully expressionless, but Vili knows her well enough to know that she will have found great entertainment in Birna’s reaction. Eivor had always had a special talent for stealth and a deep appreciation for all of its applications, practical jokes included.</p><p>“Thor’s beard Eivor, you nearly sent me to my grave!” Birna squeaks, her body keeled over itself as she rests her hands on her knees. Vili masks a laugh with a deep cough and swears he sees Eivor’s mouth twitch at the corners.</p><p>“I’m sorry for scaring you, Birna.” Eivor says with a semi-convincing degree of sincerity. “I heard a noise and wanted to see what the commotion was.” Her eyes swivel quite purposefully to the frayed splinters of wood protruding from the wall. “I also came to request your attendance in the longhouse, Vili. We discuss our next moves in Suthsexe, and I wish for your counsel.”</p><p>“Oh, well, if that’s all…” Birna wheezes. </p><p>Eivor and Vili turn to leave. As they depart, Eivor cranes her neck to give still-folded Birna a final message.</p><p>“Tell Rollo he needn’t worry so much. I will come looking for him when I am ready.”</p><p>As they walk towards the longhouse, Vili makes sure that they are out earshot of the dock’s inhabitants before he speaks. </p><p>“That was quite an appearance, old friend," he grins. "Birna nearly shit her breeches.” </p><p>Eivor flashes him a wide smile. “They have not raided with me for long enough to know my tricks. I felt I should have my fun before you spoil it.” </p><p>Vili decides to forgo telling her how she had also caught him by surprise. It has been many winters since he has last felt the need to be so acutely alert to soft noises in the shadows. </p><p>Sneaking up on him had been one of Eivor’s favourite games when they were children, especially in the midst of a hunt. He had come close to loosing an arrow on her too many times to count, startled by a sudden noise or a blur of movement out of the corner of his eye. But then she would wrap her arms around his neck and howl with laughter, scaring away the deer and any hope they had of victory. </p><p>It warms Vili’s heart to see that a sliver of that playful, wild thing still lives in her. England has made Eivor a more sombre and serious person, through necessity more than choice. He wonders if Sigurd’s return might restore more of the Eivor he once knew. Would things be the same if that were to happen?</p><p>Vili’s mind wanders back to the night in Stoneburgh when Picts set the village alight. After the hours wading through fire and smoke to drag men and women out of the wreckage of their homes, Eivor and Vili had stood with Trygve, exhausted but alive. Her voice still rings in his mind - <em>still the same Arse-Stick as when we were children</em>. </p><p>He had told her that night that he would never change. At the time the words felt as solid as silver on his lips. But now? Vili is not so sure. </p><p>“What do you think of them?” </p><p>“Hmm?” It takes a moment for Vili to pull his thoughts back to the present and to the question Eivor poses about her crew. He thinks on his answer a moment before speaking in careful, considered words. </p><p>“Birna seems to be easy natured, but craves closeness with those she fights alongside. A family. Those who seek such tight bonds are usually loyal and stalwart lieutenants. Rollo is… different. His boots seem to be filled with hot embers and his mouth filled with vinegar. Confident, but wary.” </p><p>Eivor’s eyebrows raise slightly. “You gathered all that so soon? I’m impressed.”</p><p>Vili gives a small shrug. “I had plenty of practice figuring out the contents of men’s hearts with Snotinghamscire’s thegns,” he admits. “Birna and Rollo are easily understood compared to those power-hungry hounds.” </p><p>“That is… useful to know.” Eivor’s words are flecked with the tone of surprise. Though it goes unspoken, Vili senses that Eivor’s thoughts match his own.</p><p>
  <em>What else I do not know about you?</em>
</p><p>The longhouse nears. </p><p>“What do you intend to do with Rollo?” Vili asks out of curiosity. </p><p>“I am considering my options.”</p><p>“Most in your position would summon him to the longhouse to stand in front of you and explain himself.” </p><p>As Vili says this, an odd thing happens. Eivor’s walk slows and her jaw sets. Her eyes focus on the nearing longhouse with a fierce intent, as if her gaze could burn though the walls themselves. Vili watches her, unsure. “It is the done thing” he adds, as if to dispel any unintended meaning in what he thought was a straightforward statement. </p><p>“It is not my throne to sit on, it is Sigurd’s.” Eivor says sharply. “I will not take that seat unless absolutely necessary.” </p><p>Ah. The pieces begin to fall into place in Vili’s mind, and suddenly he rather wishes he had kept his mouth shut. How many people would have told her the same, not understanding the dynamic between brother and sister? Had Eivor not told him of Dag’s betrayal fuelled by such sentiment?</p><p>Whatever nerve Vili has struck, the sting ebbs quickly. Eivor straightens, and in a gesture of goodwill, slaps Vili on the shoulder. She smiles, and Vili knows he is forgiven.</p><p>“Besides, when did being dragged in front of the Jarl ever teach us a lesson?” She asks. Her smile is conspiratorial, and Vili cannot help but match it.</p><p>“Never. You make a fair point.” </p><p>They reach the entrance to the longhouse. The smell of roasting pig and ale wafts through the air, along with the low murmur of voices he has yet to know. </p><p>“Come,” Eivor says as she beckons him inside. “We have more pressing matters for us to discuss than my resident ship thief.”</p><p>---</p><p>
  <em>Hemming Jarl pinched the bridge of his nose between two calloused fingers in a vain attempt to quell yet another headache caused by Vili and Eivor. Both stood before him with their heads bowed, eyes affixed to their boots. It was a sorry sight indeed.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>The story of their latest escapade had spread faster than wildfire: a thrilling tale that began with a friendly competition to see who could scale the brewery first, and ended in a collapsed roof and a cloud of debris.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>In most circumstances, Hemming was willing to tolerate the pair’s heedless thirst of adventure (after all, small damages were easily remedied and compensated,) but this event had rankled the entire town. Vats of ale were now spoiled, and with a roofless brewery, there was little hope of making more before the season was over and Hemming’s vikingrs came home. What kind of Jarl could not supply his men with a fine feast when they fought under his clan banner? Hemming squeezed his eyes shut, trying to temper his anger before speaking.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“You both know why you have been summoned,” he began. “Normally I would ask you both to recall your version of events so that I could pass judgement fairly. Today I will ask for no such thing. You had no reason for sulking around the brewery at night, and less for climbing it. None, Vili.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Vili, who had opened his mouth in imminent protest, snapped it shut and returned his gaze to the floor.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“You have caused severe damage to a man’s home and loss of his property. The town thirsts for ale that can no longer be consumed. You ruin my feasts and take advantage of my hospitality. To repay what you have taken, you will both leave this town and only return when you can pay for the repairs to the roof and the ale you have spoiled. One hundred silver pieces should be sufficient.” Hemming eyed the pair, searching for any sign of resistance. “You are both experienced hunters. I would suggest you put those skills to use.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>There was a long, heavy silence. Both Eivor and Vili did not move, nor did they look at Hemming Jarl. ‘At least they look apologetic’ thought Hemming, before he slouched back once again on the wooden throne, fingers pressed firmly into the arch of his nose.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Get out of my sight.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>---</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Outside the longhouse Vili and Eivor stood in momentary silence, gathering their thoughts and wits after the Jarl’s tongue lashing. It was Vili who broke the quiet first with a long, breathy exhale.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Well… that could have been worse.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Eivor nodded in agreement, sighing herself. It seemed that both had been too frightened to breathe in the Jarl’s presence. “I don’t think I’ve seen your father that angry, though I did think he would do more than send us on a hunting trip.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Vili looked at Eivor as if she had sprouted a second head. “A hunting trip?!” he repeated incredulously. “Did you not hear what he asked for? A hundred silver coins is a fortune! We will have to slay a thousand deer to pay for the ale and the roof!”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Oh, yes.” Eivor’s brow furrowed as she leaned against the longhouse’s exterior wall, falling into deep thought. “Unless…”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Unless?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Well, Hemming Jarl didn’t explicitly say we needed to earn the money through hunting. It was more of a suggestion, don’t you think?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Vili knew that tone well. A familiar spark of excitement began to grow in his gut, setting him alight from his toes to his fingertips. Amassing a small fortune was no longer a pressure, but a goal. Their exile was not a punishment, but the first step on a grand quest. An adventure.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Yes, there are many other ways of earning silver. And for the ale… well, there are many villages nearby. We may not need silver at all if we’re quiet enough.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“And why are barrels round, if not for rolling home?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Both laughed then, giddy with anticipation and brimming with confidence in their unspoken plan. Any guilt or remorse melted from their minds like summer snow, as did the quiet fury of Hemming Jarl’s words.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>What had passed, had passed. And whatever came next? Well, that was something to look forward to.</em>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. A Bond of Trust</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Though he does not say it, Vili feels Sigurd’s presence in every inch of the longhouse. Everything from the thick reindeer pelts to the great animal trophies lining the walls is a display of prosperity and prowess, a homage to the strength of the Raven Clan and the canny leadership of its Jarl.</p><p>It is impressive, but not surprising. Sigurd was always the proud sort.</p><p>Eivor also seems to recognise this. The ostentatiousness of it all is like a pair ill-fitting boots on her: uncomfortable, irritating. And yet to know her is to know greatness, someone whose victories are worthy of such a hall. Worthy of the rumours and myths and songs grow like wildflowers in her wake.</p><p><em>Where she goes, others will follow, </em>Vili thinks as they walk. <em>Just as I did.</em></p><p>As they enter the map room, a lonely figure stands in the far corner. She is pretty, with a redness in her braided hair that Vili was quite fond of in his younger years. As she steps forward, her chest sparkles with a smattering of green and blue gemstones set in gold. The overall effect is pleasing but hollow. Vili cannot put his finger on it, but something about her feels as if she does not belong in the richness of their surroundings either. Eivor waves her hand in casual greeting before leaning over the sprawling map in the centre of the room.</p><p>"Vili, this is Randvi. Sigurd's wife, and my advisor."</p><p>"Hej, Vili." Randvi greets him with a warm smile. "I have heard many stories about you from Eivor and my husband." </p><p>Before he can reply, Eivor cuts in. "I have secured an alliance with the new jarl of Snotinghamscire, Trygve.” She yanks at the dagger protruding from the map and replaces it with a wooden Raven, her speed causing the map’s delicate edge to buckle and fold. Randvi makes an odd little noise in her throat as the map wrinkles, but regains her composure quickly.</p><p>"Excellent work. There are few counties in England who the Raven Clan do not call friend.” </p><p>"You told me you had heard word from Basim. Has he found Sigurd?" If Eivor tries to hide the raw edge of anxiety in her voice, she does so poorly. Her words are quick, the pitch rising and falling in strained patterns. For her part, Randvi shakes her head. </p><p>"His message does not say, only that he is in the company of Guthrum Jarl in Croidene. He asks for you to meet with him as soon as you are able.” </p><p>“Good. We shall go as soon as possible.” Eivor’s shoulders seem to loosen a little, though her voice still holds tension. Vili sees this and understands her slight ease - in situations like this, no news is good news. </p><p>But Randvi does not share that relief; this much is plain to them both. She affixes her eyes to the map, pupils darting back and forth over the landmark labels as if calculating something vast and complex in her head. It is Vili who coaxes her first.</p><p>“Your eyes betray your worry, Randvi. Speak plainly.”</p><p>It takes another long, silent moment of map searching before Randvi opens her mouth. “I worry we rush into this fight too quickly.” she begins tentatively. “If Fulke truly has the backing of King Aelfred, she will have a great many men at her disposal. More than we have, even with the support of our current allies. I am not sure if it is a winnable fight without great numbers."</p><p>"If Basim calls, he must believe there is a way,” interjects Eivor brutishly. She has not lost that famous stubbornness.</p><p>“Basim is the reason why Sigurd is captive, is he not?”</p><p>Eivor’s head snaps upwards. She and Randvi stare at each other with a look caught somewhere between a challenge and bitter, begrudging understanding. The air between them lies thick with thoughts and words unsaid. Curiosity makes Vili’s skin itch, but he knows better than to ask questions about a man he does not know in this environment.</p><p>Eivor sighs, and her head bows once more. “We cannot afford to waste more time while Sigurd rots in a cell," she says, tone still mulish.</p><p>"And you cannot send our men to slaughter to satiate your anger!” Randvi strikes her fist on the table with a frustrated bang as the colour in her cheeks rises to a flushed pink. “I want Sigurd back too Eivor, but if we strike too soon we shall lose our jarl and our people."</p><p>"He has a chance if we strike now!” Eivor's cold eyes flare with anger, but the fury is as bright and swift as a crack of lighting. She blinks, it is gone, and only the storm remains. “If we wait and he is lost to Fulke, when I could have done something..." </p><p>Her voice cracks like sheet ice over a raging river. With Eivor’s anger thawed, all that is left is its kindling - desperation. The sound of it sits in Vili’s chest like a stone. For an unfettered moment, he wants to close the space between them and hold her, to soothe the panic that robs her of sleep and drains her of the happy mischief he once knew so well. Not for the first time since reuniting, he wishes they were back in Norway, when life was simple and free and troubled only by the scrapes they themselves orchestrated. But then Eivor looks at him, and the baseless wishes evaporate into thin air. </p><p>"I brought you here for your counsel, Vili," Eivor says in a steady voice. "So counsel me. What should I do?"</p><p>"Randvi is right,” Vili replies with a quickness that takes both Eivor and Randvi off guard. “It would be needless to send your men to slaughter. But many battles have been fought and won by sides who cannot match their opponent’s numbers." Vili knows a thing or two about those kinds of fights - he has fought many of them. Battles against seemingly never-ending Pict armies; skirmishes that felt like trying to stem the bleeding of a severed arm. "Does Fulke know we are coming?”</p><p>Randvi nods cautiously. “Sooner or later, yes.”</p><p>“And she is well protected?”</p><p>“Most likely. Even if she is so brazen as to travel alone, you can be assured that Sigurd will be well guarded. It would be impossible to find him alone.” Randvi’s eyes dart towards Eivor pointedly; a look that Vili knows all too well. <em>Don’t even think about going by yourself, Wolf-Kissed.</em> </p><p>“Are there cities or military encampments large enough in the county for her to fortify?” Vili presses on.</p><p>“Yes, a handful.” Randvi’s fingers glide over the map as she points out all of the relevant locations. “Though she is unlikely to dig in until she knows we move on her position.”</p><p>Vili stares at the map, imagining the movement of men across the roughly inked topography. He does not consider himself a natural tactician, but learned one; educated by many hard-won victories and the occasional stinging loss. Eivor is better than him at this, he knows. More instinctive in her choices, more astute when sniffing out an opponent's weakness. But his plan is good, and her decisions are clouded by a torrent of emotions. Vili's confidence shows as he speaks.</p><p>“We will have our best chance of defeating Fulke if we cut the head off the viper before it can nest. Destroy their food, cut supply lines, silence their scouts. Strike a cut so sharp that she does not feel it until it's too late. Without food her men will start to abandon her. Those who stay will be soft meat for our blades.”</p><p>There is a pause in the conversation, a silent beat while the room considers the proposition on the table. Then, Randvi nods. “It could work,” she says slowly. </p><p>"It will work.” Whatever vulnerability Vili had seen in Eivor moments ago, whatever hurt that needed soothing, is gone. Her eyes are steely and resolute as she commands Randvi to send word to her allies that the Raven Clan calls them to Suthsexe.</p><p>Randvi takes the instruction without further argument. As she departs, she pauses by Vili. “You are cleverer than they told me,” she tells him with a quiet smile, and takes her leave. </p><p>Alone again, Eivor breathes a long, heavy sigh that seems to change her entire demeanour. Some of the hardness is lost, replaced by… well, Vili isn’t sure. Theirs is a strange dynamic, one Vili has spent more time trying to unpick than he would care to admit. Alone, they are just as they have always been - relaxed, comfortable, honest. Yet in company, something between them changes. They play their roles - leader, drengr, counsel, confidant - and push that which binds them out of sight.</p><p>He is learning to treasure these moments with her. To just ‘be’ is a luxury neither can afford to indulge in. Not now.</p><p>Vili looks to Eivor and sees that she is watching him with contemplative interest. "Your plan is good, but weakening Fulke's forces will be no easy task," she tells him. Another sigh escapes her lips and she looks to the magnificent bow of the ceiling. Vili tries to avert his attention away from studying the profile of her face. "I wish we could do this alone, just the two of us. Like all those times in Norway.”</p><p>That makes him snort. “We didn’t spill blood while rescuing Sigurd from those messes," Vili points out. "Well, not much. Mostly his now I think about it.”</p><p>Eivor chuckles, but the happy sound gutters and dies as quickly as a candle at the end of its wick. “Randvi worries that my emotions cloud my judgement. Perhaps she is right.” The admittance pains her; Vili can see as much from the set of her jaw. Eivor looks towards the empty wooden throne behind them as if willing her brother to appear from its edge. “I cannot afford to doubt my instinct, not when it comes to Sigurd," she mutters.</p><p>“If it helps, I have always trusted your judgement, in my own affairs and well as your own.” Vili’s words are as true as any he can say. After all, why else would he have followed her half way across England? Without her steady head, he may well have been Jarl now; crippled by responsibility and simmering with resentment against a birthright he never truly wanted. Eivor smiles, and it is as broad and free a smile as Vili has seen since they arrived in Ravensthorpe.</p><p>“It does. Thank you.”</p><p>They stay like that awhile, side by side, enjoying a fleeting moment of peace before the outside world comes crashing in once again. Then Eivor turns. A fleck of anxiety colours the blue of her eyes again, but for once, it’s not for Sigurd.</p><p>“I must ask something of you, old friend.” </p><p>“What?”</p><p>“That you keep your trust in me, in Sigurd. Whatever faces us in the future.” Eivor keeps Vili’s gaze, but it wavers, scanning his face for any crack or sign of reluctance. Though she does not speak it, he knows what she is really saying.</p><p>
  <em>I can’t endure another betrayal, especially not from you. Please, Vili...</em>
</p><p>He takes her arm, and she gladly grips it in return. “I will have your back until Skuld’s scissors cut the threads of our fate,” Vili tells her, and means it. </p><p>---</p><p>After bidding Eivor good night, Vili walks to Dag’s grave. He sits by its side, quietly admiring its precise and careful decoration. He and Eivor have not spoken of Dag since their ride from Snotinghamscire, but Vili thinks of him often. It is more difficult to say goodbye to the idea of him than the man himself. </p><p>Eivor’s words replay in his mind again and again - <em>keep your trust in me, in Sigurd</em>. It was a lack of trust that forced Eivor’s hand with Dag, cutting his saga short. </p><p>“I hope what she asks of me is easier than it was for you, old friend,” Vili whispers into the wind. “I hope it is not an impossible task.”</p><p>---</p><p>
  <em>“Sigurd will you stop fidgeting! Move your arm - no, the other one - argh! Vili, help me!”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Will you both be quiet!” Vili hissed, his eyes fixed on the mouth of the narrow alley. A dissonant hum of bangs and grunts came from behind him as Eivor struggled to keep Sigurd hidden. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Where is he? I-I’ll fight them again! Troll faced… Dishon-honourable…” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Vili heard a muffled yelp as Eivor clamped her brother’s drunken mouth shut, and was thankful for it. They had saved Sigurd’s skin more than once after a long night in the ale hall, mostly by ending the fights he started with that quick tongue of his. His wit was a gift that charmed more than it riled, but to Eivor’s and Vili’s chagrin, always seemed to make Sigurd a target for the most brutish of men.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>And the worst of them, a heavy thug by the name of Ulf, was coming their way.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Of all the women Sigurd could bed in this town, Vili asked himself, why did he have to pick this troll's wife? </em>
</p><p>
  <em>As Ulf approached Vili turned, eyes frantically searching for somewhere to retreat. The alley was painfully barren, save for a row of barrels and some empty crates. He caught Eivor’s eye and she nodded. It would have to do.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Grabbing one of Sigurd’s arms each, they hauled him into cover as quietly as possible, each hoping that the blood streaming from Sigurd’s nose would soak into his shirt instead of the white snow beneath them. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Ulf’s footsteps were getting closer. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>The space behind the barrels was smaller than it had looked from the top of the alley. As Eivor slipped in and crouched over Sigurd’s tangled limbs, Vili saw with a dawning realisation that there was no way he would squeeze into the hiding spot. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Eivor realised this too. Her hand dived into the shadows behind the barrels and pulled out what appeared to be a burst sack, its seam split and gaping at the side. With a deft flick of her wrist, she flung it to Vili. He caught the fabric and held it in front of him, staring at it blankly.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“What am I meant to do with this?!”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“I don’t know! Get creative!” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>They could both hear Ulf’s breathing now; the distinctive wheeze of a man who has had his nose broken one too many times.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Without time to think, Vili threw the cloth over his head in a makeshift shawl and positioned himself with his back towards the alley’s entrance. He hunched his back, bent his knees, and prayed to the Gods that Ulf would not see them poking out. In the gloom, he could just see Eivor’s nervous eyes peering from behind the barrels.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Ulf’s footsteps turned the corner, stopped, and quickened towards him.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Oi! You there!” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>All of a sudden Vili’s mouth was very, very dry. Swallowing hard, he did the only thing that came to his mind. In his most feminine, high pitched voice, he replied: “oh, I wasn’t expecting company.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Even to Vili’s ear it wasn’t very convincing. There was the faintest of rustles behind the barrels - either Sigurd stirring or Eivor holding in a laugh. Mercifully, Ulf didn’t seem to be in the mindset to scrutinize this lumpy shawled figure before him. His mind was on only one thing - revenge.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“I’m looking for someone,” he growled in his usual nasally way. “An ale-soaked lout by the name of Sigurd. Caught the bastard in bed with my wife. Had two friends with him. You seen anything?” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Can’t say I have.” In the cracks between the barrels, Vili could see Eivor’s eyes glinting with tears. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Ulf grunted. The snow shifted beneath his feet as he looked up and down the alley, only to stop once again, his laboured breathing the only sound cutting through the night air.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“What are you doing back here at this time of night?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Vili’s stomach dropped. He searched for Eivor’s eyes in the space between the barrels, but they had gone. For a split second, he considered his odds if he were to turn and strike Ulf between the eyes, catching him by surprise. They might get another street over if they were lucky. Ulf was a bruiser, but not very quick on his feet.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Luckily, the next noise came so quickly it didn’t give Vili the opportunity to find out. He saw Eivor’s and Sigurd’s faces emerge from the shadows, obscured from Ulf’s view his sack-cape, and Eivor’s hand as she pushed her brother’s face down in one fluid, brutal motion.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Splash.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>For a moment Vili stood dumbstruck. Sigurd’s half-submerged head struggled in the barrel against Eivor’s vice grip, causing water to slosh over the sides and onto Vili’s boots. Her eyes caught his with an electric urgency. Make something up, they said, anything!</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“I’m - er - drowning kittens. An unfortunate job, but the little runts are eating me out of house and home.” Vili almost forgot to up the pitch of his voice as he scrambled for what to say. Eivor’s head ducked into the shadows once more, and Vili knew she was biting back a bellowing laugh.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>He turned a fraction of an inch around to look at Ulf’s long shadow hovering behind him and, in the coyest lady-voice he could muster, said: “I don’t suppose you would want to finish the job?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>For a man with such an ugly reputation, the thought of some old crone drowning kittens by moonlight seemed to sit uneasily with Ulf. His armour plates clinked as he looked up and down the alley once more.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Er, no. If you see a drunken boy with a bloody nose, come find me.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Vili made an over-exaggerated nod and listened as Ulf skulked away. The tips of his shadow had barely disappeared from view when Eivor finally released Sigurd’s hair from her grasp. He emerged from the water like an arrow loosed from a bow, red faced and sobered. After a minute of coughing and spluttering he rounded on Eivor, who had let herself fall into peals of laughter.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“You could have drowned me!” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“And you could have gotten yourself killed!” The laughter in Eivor’s voice died instantly as she snapped back. There was a moment of tense, cold fury between the two siblings. Then finally Sigurd chuckled, and all was well.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>The three crowed and whooped, high on adrenaline, still not quite believing that Ulf could be so stupid. It seemed that drink was both the root of their problems and likely their saviour that night. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Oh, that was a poor decision on my part,” Sigurd admitted as he wrung the water from his beard and checked his swollen nose with a ginger touch. “She was worth it though.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Eivor rolled her eyes and elbowed him in the ribs, her face caught between a smile and a scowl. “I hope so, brother. Perhaps there will come a day when Vili and I will not be here to save your sorry backside.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Then I hope that day never comes!” Sigurd grinned. He stood, swaying slightly, with a vigour in his step and new wind in his sails. </em>
  <em>“Come, friends. There are other ale houses to be visited while the night is still young!”</em>
</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. And So It Goes</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Vili dreams of Eivor’s lips on his throat.</p><p>In waking his memories of that night in Odin’s Hovel are sparse, veiled with grief and cold-numbed static. But in sleep, his subconscious sets alight and fills the gaps in vivid, blistering detail. He feels the warmth of her naked body soaking into his skin. The scent of honey and woodsmoke in her hair. The grip of her muscled thighs locked tight around his hips. The roughness of her callused fingertips dancing over his chest and arms, making his very core thrum with desire. And her voice, feather-light and sweet as syrup, saying his name over and over again, like the sound of something divine and precious.</p><p>But when he awakens there are no glowing embers of last night’s fire, no star-filled sky overhead, and no warm body beside him. Vili lies frustrated and confused, left alone to ponder what is and what might have been.</p><p>Growing up, there was always… something there. A closeness. A curiosity. Eivor's had been the first body Vili touched besides his own, though both would agree more through necessity to avoid freezing to death during cold Norwegian nights than want. </p><p>He still isn't sure what possessed him to admit his desire for her that night, nor what prompted her to reciprocate. Grief, he supposes. The need to feel close to someone while one they both cared for so deeply slipped away. A way to pass the time, to temporarily fill the void in his heart.</p><p>It doesn’t answer why these whispers of memory still invade his sleep.</p><p>It is strange. Confusing. He doesn’t know how to feel about any of it. </p><p>A pair of loud, thunderous footsteps are an abrupt but welcome distraction from the din of Vili's mind. To his surprise, the footsteps belong to Rollo. He bursts in to the lodge, bare-chested and breathing like an ox. He motions Vili to stand with a violent flick of his hand.</p><p>And so it goes, from one perplexity to another. Vili gets up slowly and notices that Rollo’s weight rocks back and forth between the balls of his feet, muscles in a constant tensile dance. His speech comes in short staccato bursts. </p><p>“When I ran my own crew, I fought every man and woman who thought to sail with me," Rollo growls. His eyes roam, never quite meeting Vili’s. A twitchy hand gestures outside. “So... come on then. Let's go.”</p><p>Vili blinks, willing himself to read between the lines of Rollo’s strange behaviour. And then, piece by piece, it starts to click. The abrupt entrance. His juddering frame. 'I fought every man and woman...' </p><p>
  <em>Oh. He wants to fight me.</em>
</p><p>Vili draws up to his full height and crosses his arms over his barrelled chest. He has no time for men full of hot air, and even less for those without authority to make such challenges.</p><p>“I don’t sail in <em>your</em> crew,” he spits. The emphasis is plain and accusatory. Rollo shakes his head like a mutt dislodging fleas from its ear. </p><p>“You mistake me. How can you trust the drengr on your shoulder if you have never seen them fight?” he snaps. “How can I trust you?”</p><p>While irritated, Vili must begrudgingly admit there is logic to that. He has been eager to see what Eivor’s crew can do, and knows that they are likely just as curious about him.</p><p>With a willing opponent in front of him, it would be foolish to turn down such a gift.</p><p>---</p><p>The skies overhang in sullen grey as Vili steps outside of the raider’s lodgings to the smell of river water and curing salt. A small crowd has already formed on the dock. It congregates in a rough oval; some sitting on overturned crates, others perched on creaky railings with a leg dangling over the muddy waters below. Rollo is already in the centre of the clearing. On seeing Vili he crouches low, muscles coiled and tight. Everything about in screams impatience, aggression. </p><p>“Hurry up,” he barks, hands opening and closing in quick fists. “I haven’t got all day.” Vili smirks and decides to eke out his stretching a few moments longer.</p><p>As sure as the day is long, Vili loves to fight. He remembers the first time he knocked an opponent flat on their back as vividly as his first kiss. The ache of tired muscles, the blackness of bruises, the coppery taste of blood and the hammering thump of his heart - it all lifts the spirits and hones the senses. His blood has not been properly warmed since cleaving his way through that bandit-filled mine in Snotinghamscire. Vili hopes Rollo can back up his bark with more than bite. </p><p>Vili bends his knees and finds his balance. He is grounded, ready.</p><p>Rollo moves first. He steps forward and throws an exploratory jab that is easily read and sidestepped by Vili; too head-on to have any real chance of connecting. A move to gauge his reach, get a feel for how far on the inside he’ll need to be. The two circle each other slowly, pressing and feinting in syncopated beats, neither willing to show their hand. </p><p>The crowd brays for them to get on with it. With the roar of an audience at his back, Rollo seems only too happy to oblige. </p><p>He ducks left and low, driving a fist towards Vili’s gut. But it’s not quick enough. Vili pivots and feels the sweep of knuckles against his tunic before swinging his leg upwards. The kick connects with Rollo’s bicep with a crunching thud. The shorter man is sent stumbling sideways, suddenly off-balance and flat-footed.</p><p>Vili smirks. Sweet lightning pulses the tips of his fingers to the soles of his feet, setting his blood alight and his heart ablaze. This is what he was made for. “You’ll have to be faster than that to get close to me,” he jeers, and the crowd laughs with him.</p><p>“And you’ll have to hit harder to see me hurt,” Rollo snarls as he drops back into his brawler’s stance. The next assault is fast and furious, and for a blind moment Vili regrets goading the young drengr. It is all he can do to dodge and block Rollo’s barrage of fists, moving all the time to stop Rollo closing the space between them. His forearms bear the brunt of the hits and bloom with pain. It is only a matter of time before Rollo’s quick fists find a weakness. He shifts his weight, turns, and connects with Vili’s ribs. The force of the impact steals the air from Vili’s lungs. He falls back, momentarily winded.</p><p>But the ferocity of Rollo’s attack is not without cost. For a split second Rollo breathes too heavily, allows his arms to drop too low, and amidst his own roaring pain Vili sees his opportunity. He lunges and swings at Rollo’s jaw, pushing through the motion as knuckle meets bone. There is a satisfying click of teeth as Rollo’s head snaps back. He staggers backwards into the crowd, sending onlookers scattering like mice.</p><p>Vili’s chest is on fire where Rollo had caught him. It fogs his mind and drains his energy like a leaking ale cup. <em>Don’t let up</em>, he commands himself forcefully through the mugginess. <em>Don’t let him breathe. </em></p><p>Vili lunges and finds the crook of Rollo’s knee with his foot. There is a moment of struggle, a push against the inevitable, but Vili knows how this fight will end. With an almighty heave Rollo crashes to the ground, limbs scraping the splinter-filled wood and head bouncing off the dock before he becomes still. A ragged, agonised groan escapes his chest like hot air from a blacksmith’s bellows. </p><p>It's over. Vili wipes the sweat from his face and breathes deeply, doing his best to hide the signs of exertion. The crowd's cheering melds with the sound of gulls screeching overhead. It is loud, disorienting, exalting. Breathing heavily through his nose, Vili extends his arm to Rollo and is surprised when he takes it. </p><p>As he gets to his feet, Vili can see that Rollo’s eyes are no longer filled with hot agitation, but something clamer. Relief, perhaps? He grins, and his teeth are tinged orange-red.</p><p>“Not bad," Rollo says. "You’re quicker than I thought you’d be.”</p><p>The tinge of resentment in Rollo’s voice makes Vili want to laugh - had he not said almost the exact same thing after being left on the floor by more experienced drengrs in his youth? Even young Rollo’s fighting style felt uncannily familiar - the all-out offense, the wildness of it - Vili too had once had such propensities before they were beaten out of him. </p><p>On the day they arrived in Ravensthorpe, Eivor had told Vili that Rollo reminded her of him. Now Vili sees why. </p><p>He makes a show of rubbing his arms where most of Rollo’s blows had fallen; it seems to have the intended effect of lifting the younger man's spirits. “And you are stronger than you look - I will have the bruises tomorrow to show it," Vili chuckles. 'So, did I pass your test?”</p><p>Rollo pauses, raises his head to look at Vili squarely, and nods. “I’d say so.”</p><p>With the spectacle over and no more blood to capture the collective imagination, the residents of Ravensthorpe begin to break apart and disperse, melting with ease back into the everyday humdrum of village life. Birna emerges from the last of the unravelling groups, dancing towards them and grinning like a madwoman. Vili had thought he heard her cackling laughter, but it was not a sound all too unfamiliar with bird screech. She flings an arm over Rollo’s shoulder with consolatory affection. </p><p>“Wasn’t that fun! Much more civilised than when we sparred for the first time, little brother." Birna raises a dirty fingernail and draws it along a ragged pink scar just above Rollo’s eyebrow. "I gave him that one."</p><p>Rollo jerks his head away, though he looks more annoyed than angry at Birna's flagrant disregard for his personal space. “That was nothing more than a scratch," he snorts. "I left you with a missing tooth and only half your wits.”</p><p>Birna crows with laughter and tightens her grip on his shoulder. “Hardly, little brother! I have at least two thirds of my wits and you know it!”</p><p>Vili watches on as the pair continue to bicker and fuss, allowing the scene to distract him while the last of his adrenaline ebbs away. It's nice to see them… well, getting along might be too generous a term. </p><p>“That was well fought, my friends.” </p><p>A familiar husky voice behind them makes all three Jomsvikingrs turn to see Eivor behind them. She looks relaxed, happy. <em>It must be a good thing to see us at peace</em>, Vili thinks. She has enough worries without her crew squabbling like children. </p><p>With a bit of concerted effort, Rollo finally pries himself away from Birna’s grip. “How long were you watching?” There is a slight edge to Rollo's voice, a nervousness that does not suit him. </p><p>“Long enough," Eivor replies. "Watching a good sparring match warms the blood.” She tightens, circles, and releases each muscle group in careful sequence as she moves closed: fists, wrists, arms, shoulders, neck. It's a practice Vili has seen many time before. Eivor's eyes find his, and Vili feels that familiar lightning prickling down his limbs.</p><p>“I am in need of some practice myself," Eivor says, eyebrow cocked. "Will you take on a new opponent Arse-Stick? Or has Rollo tired you out?”</p><p>Vili grins. The churning pain of his arms and chest fades into the background, as do the braying of Birna and Rollo. The desire to be wholly present, to be physical and strong and fast, far outweighs his body’s outraged cries. Eivor crouches before him, weight slightly shifted on her front foot, tense and poised to strike. </p><p>He never was able to say no to her. </p><p>---</p><p>“I would have won today, had you not taken advantage of being second in line to Rollo.”</p><p>It is a stupid thing to say and Vili knows it, but he can't help himself. Out of the corner of his eye, Vili sees Eivor's placid expression grow into a cocky, merciless grin. “Is that so?” she asks teasingly.</p><p>He opens his mouth to reply, but no clever words come. There doesn’t seem to be much point in arguing. He and Eivor both know there was only ever going to be one outcome, regardless of circumstance.</p><p>Still, Vili can’t help but repeat the fight in his mind over and over again. He fixates on the details, certain that there must be <em>something</em>, some minute adjustment that would have tipped the bout in his favour. A shift in weight? A fractional mistiming? But nothing he thinks of stands out. Wherever he struck, she was simply just not there. </p><p>There had been a moment where he thought the tables might have turned. A stroke of luck, where Vili had reached out blindly to his side and was met with a handful of leather armour. He had pulled, yanked, and almost wrapped her head in a choke as she came falling towards him. But with the slightest of adjustments, Eivor had merely rolled over the breadth of his shoulders, landing on her feet with his back towards her.</p><p>Vili treats fighting as a discipline to be trained and mastered. Eivor fights like Odin himself guides her hand - instinctive, fluid, unpredictable. It is beautiful and galling all at once. </p><p>Short-tempered frustration boils in Vili’s belly like bitter ale - he doesn’t like to lose. But Eivor, ever gracious in victory, doesn’t show any interest in teasing him further. She reclines and sighs happily, limbs languid as she looks over the pretty English skyline. They have retreated just north of Ravensthorpe to a grassy knoll overlooking the settlement for a moment of quiet amid the busy noise of their Clansmen. </p><p>Eivor shifts her weight to softly nudge to Vili’s still-aching ribs. “You fought well. I believe you have earned Rollo’s respect today, and the respect of many of the other warriors in Ravensthorpe besides.”</p><p>Vili shrugs. “I do not need his respect, though I hope it marks the beginning of a trust between us,” he admits. “But what bluster he has! Swaggering in, telling me all about his ways of testing the worthiness of his crew. Perhaps today has knocked some sense into him.”</p><p>For a moment Eivor looks perplexed. “What did he say when he challenged you?” she asks.</p><p><em>What an odd question</em>, Vili thinks. Still, he sees no reason to be untruthful.</p><p>“He told me that when he crewed his own ship, he would fight every man or woman who wished to sail with him. To make sure they were good enough, I suppose. That’s why he wanted to fight me.”</p><p>Eivor’s eyes widen in surprise. And then, without warning, she bursts into loud, unbridled laughter. The noise makes a flight of swallows scatter from the treeline.</p><p>“That ego-drunk louse! Part of his penance for stealing my ship and my crew was to fight you. I should have known his pride was too precious to tell you the truth.” Her smile is as bright as the sun that warms her skin. She tilts her head back, still giggling, and Vili catches himself watching the small muscles in her neck. </p><p>“Still, at least you taught him the lesson I hoped you would.” She furrows her brow and drops her voice low in an exaggerated caricature of herself. “Lose to Vili, and you owe me two months of mead plus your share of the next two raids. That's what I told him.”</p><p>Vili chuckles. “And if I had lost?”</p><p>“You weren’t going to. But, if he had somehow bested you, all debts would be forgiven.” There is such certainty in Eivor’s words that Vili does not quite know how to react. The tightness in his chest is happy, warm, but unfamiliar. He swallows it down.</p><p>“I hope you plan to share your spoils with the friend who unwittingly helped you.”</p><p>Eivor nudges him again, harder than before. “If said friend can stay out of trouble himself, I may consider it.”</p><p>Their conversation comes as easily as breathing, talking about anything and everything in Ravensthorpe, both wilfully ignoring the looming troubles that darken beyond the horizon. But even the most intentioned good humour cannot lift Eivor of her sense of duty forever. Eventually her smile fades, replaced by a serious mask as her eyes fall to her hands.</p><p>“I have decided to travel to Croindene alone," Eivor says with a tone that doesn't welcome comment. "While we all must move to stop Fulke, I cannot forget the clan’s need to secure alliances in England.” She looks to Vili, seemingly reading his mind. “That is a task I should do alone.”</p><p>But <em>why</em>? If Eivor has an explanation, she does not offer it. Her countenance is like a frozen river; cool stillness masks rough water beneath the surface. Vili knows this, but knowing a thing doesn't mean you understand it. </p><p>It seems that their time apart has robbed them of more than just memories. He wonders if he will ever hold the key to fully understanding her mind again. </p><p>“You tell me half-truths. I can see it in your face,” Vili says plainly, taking great care to dampen the frustration from his voice. Eivor goes still, sighs, and turns away. It is a silent, brooding acknowledgement of his assessment.</p><p>“I must speak with Basim alone. He is the only one who was with me and Sigurd the day he was taken. I need to…” Her voice stutters, falters, and whatever Eivor wanted to say dies in her mouth before she changes tact. “Basim has been a good friend to Sigurd, and a good friend to our clan. But I cannot give my trust fully to a man who does not fight for our mission.” </p><p>Gods, this is agony. The feeling of discussing Sigurd and Basim is like marching through thick mud, draining the energy and spirit out of both of them and leaving only simmering anger behind. If Vili could turn hold Eivor by her ankles and shake the information out of her, he would. Maybe she thinks that he doesn’t care for the details. It wouldn’t be unreasonable - Vili has ran headfirst into too many battles to count with only a vague inkling of who and what he was fighting, too heady with the thrill of the bloodshed to think about much else. </p><p><em>Sigurd needs your help</em>, Vili tells himself. <em>That should be enough. </em></p><p>But it's not enough. Not by a long shot.</p><p>
  <em>Why is it not enough?</em>
</p><p>Vili’s mind casts back to those strange days before his father’s passing - a dizzy mix of happy reunion and crippling denial. Eivor had pressed Vili then, forcing him to face the situation before him no matter how hard he resisted. She hadn’t settled on the half-baked excuses he gave. She had pushed, as friends who care for each other should. His next words come more easily after that. </p><p>“You worry this man, Basim, leads Sigurd down the wrong path.” It is phrased as a statement, not a question. Vili can feel Eivor’s hard stare burning into the side of his face as she decides how to react.</p><p>“No. At this moment in time our paths are intertwined - this much is clear to me. But I worry that one day we will arrive at a crossroads, and there will be nothing I can do to convince Sigurd to follow the dream we had when we set sail for England. I worry he will choose a path that I cannot follow.”</p><p>The admission is soft and quiet, and sits uneasily on Vili’s mind. Sigurd and Eivor may not share blood, but their bond is stronger than any Vili has known. To think of a rift between them was… well, unthinkable. Untenable. Wrong.</p><p>“You call Basim a friend, and yet he drives a wedge between you and Sigurd. What could he possibly offer Sigurd that would bring him greater glory than conquering England with you?” </p><p>Eivor makes an odd, choking noise. She stands and throws a fistful of grass in her wake. Just like that, the fleeting moment of vulnerability is gone, and she is replaced once more by the mighty drengr of song and rhyme.</p><p>“I ride at first light tomorrow. I will send word when the Raven Clan meets with her allies in Suthsexe.” Then, in something of a concession, she points towards one of the village’s buildings. It is fairly nondescript compared to its neighbours, save for its signage and training dummies. “While I am gone you should make time to visit Hytham, Basim’s apprentice. You’ll find him there, at the bureau.” </p><p>“You haven’t answered my question,” Vili presses once more. Eivor lets out a long, exhausted sigh. </p><p>“Some stories that are not mine to tell,” she tells him ruefully. “We need Basim to bring Sigurd back home. Let's leave it at that.”</p><p>There are no more words today. Eivor departs to prepare for the journey ahead, and Vili is left no less confused than when he awoke that morning. </p><p>And so it goes, from one perplexity to another. </p><p>---</p><p>
  <em>“You have the sense of a horse’s arse, Vili Hemmingson!”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Me?!” Vili cast his eyes up from the fledgling fire to throw Eivor a hurt, incredulous look. “I told you the ice wouldn’t hold!”</em>
</p><p><em>“It was your idea to go f-f-fishing.”</em> </p><p>
  <em>“And it was your idea to make it a competition. Now shut up and get closer. Take off your wet clothes while you’re at it.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Eivor glowered in between violent shivers, but did as she was told. The fire sputtered as it caught the kindling, and Vili could hear the heavy thump of wet wool as he scoured the abandoned home for anything of use.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“A-a-are you sure no one lives here?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Vili nodded, forcing open a frozen box with the heel of his hand. “This was Eiald the Ruthless’s house. He went a-Viking three seasons ago and never came back. Only living things that have visited since are the deer and us.” Nature had gone some ways to reclaiming the house's timber structure, but in an emergency it was as good a place as Vili could think of to weather out a cold night. </em>
</p><p><em>It didn’t take long for Vili to find some useful items amongst the old drengr’s abandoned possessions; a battered old cooking pot and two reasonably dry furs amongst them. Vili threw Eivor one of the furs before packing snow into the pot, placing it on the fire, and clearing an old table to form a makeshift bed. It looked sturdy, but creaked and shuddered under strain. Vili could only hope it would hold their weight - sleeping on the heat-sapping ground in the dead of winter was an easy way to die.</em> </p><p>
  <em>Soon, the contents of the cooking pot were melted and steaming. He handed it to Eivor, and she drank in short, quick sips. It seemed to do the trick of warming her, though Vili was sure she would have much rather preferred warm mead at a time like this. Still, it set his mind at ease. Every Norse child had been taught how to survive the cold from the time they could walk; a morbid necessity this far north. The steps may have come to them both like second nature, but it didn’t soften the hard truth of how differently this day could have turned out had Vili not known of this warrior’s hovel.</em>
</p><p><em>As Eivor slid onto the table and sandwiched herself between the thick pelts, it struck Vili how small she looked without her usual thick layers of leather, linen, and wool. It had been a handful of winters since Vili surpassed Eivor in height, but the notion of her being little still felt odd and alien to him. Perhaps he should have been thankful for it - if she had been his size, he would have never been able to drag her out of the cracked ice. </em> </p><p>
  <em>Firelight illuminated her exposed face as she watched Vili pull over a corner of the furs and throw a leg up beside her.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“What are you doing?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Vili looked at her, baffled. Wasn’t it obvious?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“I’m lying down.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Oh no you’re not,” she said, shaking her head. “Not with all that on. Take your clothes off.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Vili’s face must have betrayed his shock, for Eivor was quick to elaborate: “this isn’t the time to be shy. Do you want to wake up and find me stiff and blue beside you?”</em>
</p><p><em>Body heat. Of course. For all he knew about staying alive in winter, why hadn’t he thought about that? Vili turned away, flushed with embarrassment (because of his forgetfulness, he told himself) and removed his garments with militaristic efficiency. It wasn’t the first time they had slept side by side, but without clothes? Well, this was new.</em> </p><p>
  <em>She was surprisingly warm as he slipped between the furs behind her, save for her extremities and the dampness of her hair. No sooner had he settled, Vili felt the cold sting of her frigid toes against his shins, and heard her chuckle as he hissed at the sudden change in temperature. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>They lay there then, silent and awkward, until Eivor tilted her head slightly. Firelight caught the shadow of a wicked grin just visible on her cheeks. </em>
</p><p><em>“You smell awful, by the way.”</em> </p><p>
  <em>“I’m sorry only one of us had time to take a dip in the lake,” Vili replied with biting sarcasm. Eivor laughed, and for a moment everything felt normal again. It was close, familiar, like any other time they had shared a bed.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>But then she took his hands in hers, pulling him to her, one arm draping over her collarbone and the other across her hips. Vili dared to twitch his fingers across the soft plains of her skin before resting them between small grooves of bone and muscle. Her backbone pressed against his chest, radiating heat.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Valli wondered if his heart would beat out of his chest. His only consolation was the thump of Eivor's pulse, as strong and quick as his own, beating against his forearm.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>---</em>
</p><p>
  <em>At daybreak Eivor and Vili woke together, limbs still entangled, warm and close between the furs. Neither of them spoke as they rose and redressed. It was only when they had finally stepped out into the crisp morning sunshine did Eivor turn to Vili.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"Thank you."</em>
</p><p>
  <em>So many questions. So many thoughts. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>But survival was survival, wasn't it?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Vili shrugged and looked towards home.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"Don't mention it."</em>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. The Raven's Call</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It is early morning when Vili takes his first visit to the bureau. Normally he prefers the busy rabble of midday, but it's easier to get things done in the quiet hours of first light, and easier still to slip away from the docks without being noticed. Ravensthorpe is still and tinted in soft gold and he walks its muddy paths towards his destination.</p><p>From what he gathers, the early hour won’t bother Hytham. Snippets of village gossip have led Vili to believe he doesn’t sleep much, nor does he often leave the bureau. “He is more of a scholar than a warrior these days,” Randvi had told him after Vili came digging. “An injury sustained in Norway prevents Hytham from following Basim into the belly of England.” She had looked at him then, short and sharp, like a scolding mother with a child full to the brim with mischief. “He is a good and kind man, a friend to all of us. If Eivor wishes for you two become acquainted, it is only to strengthen those bonds.”</p><p><em>She defends him with more passion than she has for her husband</em>, Vili thinks absentmindedly as he walks. The bureau's signage bears a mark that is unfamiliar to him, but distinct enough to stick in his memory. It reminds him of the sharp arch of a bird’s skull picked clean - a harrier perhaps, or an eagle.</p><p>The first thing that strikes Vili as he enters is Hytham’s clothes: the man does not dress like any Norse, Dane, Saxon or Briton Vili has seen before. His robes are white and fitted, synched with a thick plated belt and leather straps that criss-cross over his torso. The armour plates on his shoulders and arms are intricately decorated with strange and unfamiliar motifs. As his head turns, Vili notices that the leather hood resting between his shoulder blades has an unusual peak in the centre, like a raven’s beak. </p><p>At least his face is kind. Hytham directs a welcoming, slightly forgiving nod in his direction, and Vili notices that he has been standing in silence for a beat too long. </p><p>“Hej, Hytham,” Vili says in quick recovery. “I hope you do not mind the visiting hour.” The candles on Hytham’s table are fat and squat, a set of dull flames atop a mountain range of wax drippings. It appears the hearsay about Hytham’s sleep patterns is true. “I am Vili, a friend of Eivor’s.”</p><p>“I had wondered when our paths might meet.” Hytham replies. His accent is as unfamiliar as his dress, and yet Vili recognises some faint echo of it. It reminds him of traders and merchants in Norway; the sort who would disappear for years on end roaming Volga and Miklagard before finally returning with riches the likes of which a young boy had never seen - bolts of eastern silk, bags of gold, and long bars of rich beeswax to be bartered and sold. “I saw you sparring on the docks a few days ago. You are an agile fighter.”</p><p>Vili takes the compliment with an acknowledging bow of his head. “Eivor asked me to visit you in her absence, though to what end I am unsure.”</p><p>“Did she?” Hytham says with the tone of a man who is feigning surprise. The interior of the bureau certainly holds no clues - in fact, it feels like a space Vili should not be in. Its walls are covered by jutting criss-cross beams, each cavity the pattern makes filled with piles and piles of scrolls, letters, and writing tools. It takes him back, with a small shudder, to long, tedious hours at his father’s knee, forced to learn about trade and tax and governance while his heart yearned for the thrill and adventure of the outdoors.</p><p>Hytham returns to the position Vili found him in; crouched over a carefully opened scroll on the table. It is nestled amongst its siblings and held open by the weight of two thick silver medallions, each the size of a man’s palm. “Unfortunately I cannot shed any light on the inner workings of her mind, though I am glad to meet your acquaintance," Hytham says. "My work is made lighter by having a strong network of friends.”</p><p>Ah, work. The word so descriptive, yet so void of meaning. Vili cranes his neck over Hytham’s hunched shoulder, keen to peek at what he pours over so furtively. The scroll’s yellowed surface is filled with writing in a hand that is long, deft, expressive. It is not a language he knows.</p><p>“What exactly is your work?”</p><p>Hytham takes a long pause before answering. “Fighting injustice in all its many forms. Rooting out the rot at the heart of England, so that its people can live freely.”</p><p>It is not a satisfying answer. <em>He speaks many words but says nothing</em>, Vili thinks. <em>No wonder Eivor now speaks in riddles if this is the company she keeps.</em></p><p>Hytham seems to sense Vili’s chagrin, for he straightens up once more, expression open and apologetic. “Forgive me. It is a tenant of our creed that much of what we do is kept secret. Some who live and fight alongside us learn more in time, but it is imperative to our cause that we guard our ways closely.” The apology, at least, seems genuine. </p><p>Still, the tidbits of information falling like breadcrumbs and enough to keep Vili’s interest a while longer. He flicks a wrist to the open door behind him, gesturing upwards. “The sign over your door. Is it the mark of your creed?”</p><p>“It is.”</p><p>“Displaying it outside your bureau is hardly secretive.”</p><p>Hytham stiffens at the blunt observation. By the thin line of his lips, Vili guesses it is not the first time someone has pointed this strange logic out. Hytham seems to chew on the words in his mouth, the muscles in his jaw working over his thought before he heaves a light sigh. “I sometimes forget how direct you Norse can be,” he settles on. The tone gives Vili the impression that there are very many more things Hytham would like to say, but chooses not to. </p><p>“You are Basim’s apprentice, are you not?”</p><p>“I am.”</p><p>“What does he teach you?” Vili looks around the room once again. The dark whorls inbetween the stacks of scrolls look like a thousand black eyes watching them through the cracks of morning light. “Writing? Scroll reading?”</p><p>“Basim and I are brothers.” Hytham says. His voice is still calm but carries a slight sharpness now, a polite but obvious indicator of his disdain at the question. “We do not share blood, but we are bound by our purpose. He is my mentor in the skills we need to carry out our creed’s work.”</p><p>“So, writing and scroll reading.” </p><p>The veneer of politeness breaks, and Hytham rolls his eyes. Vili smiles at the reaction - it is much better to see a man’s true emotion. Especially with men carrying so many secrets. </p><p>“You’re not a reader then," Hytham says dryly. </p><p>Vili shrugs. It’s not that he doesn’t know how - his father and Trygve had taught him well, in spite of him being an utterly uninterested and uncooperative student. “In our culture, anything worth knowing is told in rhyme and song.” he tells Hytham. “Laws, legends, the way of the world - stories not worthy of retelling die quickly.”</p><p>Hytham reaches a hand up to stroke the dark stubble on his face, paused in thought. “I have lived amongst the Raven Clan for some time now, but I am beginning to think I will never fully understand your ways,” he finally says. He turns and places a finger on the edge of the open scroll. His touch is gentle and reverent, as if  stroking something incredibly precious. It is only then that Vili realises Hytham is missing his ring finger. The oddity of it crosses his mind - normally a warrior who loses a finger in battle is without their thumb or little finger. It is even more rare to see one removed so neatly at the knuckle. </p><p>“This scroll dates back generations. It is a window into the past, and one that will help shape our future. The words in this ink do not rely on men to keep them alive; its message will outlive us all. Is the very idea not glorious?”</p><p>Vili looks at Hytham, the scroll, and back again. What foolishness was this, to equate glory to some musty paper? “Glory is won in blood, not ink,” he says flatly. “These scrolls of yours hold no value. This could be a shopping list for all I know.” His voice picks up a rueful, mocking tone. “Will men sing songs in a thousand years’ time about the farmer and the merchant who haggled over the price of salted cod?” </p><p>Hytham stares at Vili, momentarily taken aback, but it doesn’t take long for the colour in his face to rise to an aggrieved shade of red. “This scroll is very important!” he says defiantly, in a higher pitch than Vili assumes he meant. He opens his mouth to go on, but falters, and snaps it shut once more. Vili has to suppress a laugh as Hytham carefully removes the heavy silver talismans keeping the scroll open. The scroll curls in on itself in a lazy, satisfying motion until both ends meet in the middle. He picks it up, tapping both ends methodically to ensure the edges align, and steps over to place it amongst its brethren on the shelf.</p><p>“No matter, no matter.” Hytham’s words are quiet and short, and said more for himself than Vili. “What is important is that you are here. You have Eivor’s trust, and that means a great deal. Basim will surely wish to get to know you on his return, but in time I hope you may be able to help us as Eivor does.”</p><p><em>Not unless you pay me</em>, Vili tells himself, the thought coming to him as sharply as a knee-jerk. This visit has been less enlightening than he had hoped. Vili had come here expecting… well, something. A hint of the story Eivor refused to tell. A light shone on the shadowed edges of this fight he followed her into. Yet standing in the bureau with Hytham, a man no similar to him than oil is to water, Vili feels no further forward than when he entered.</p><p>With Hytham resuming his cataloguing of texts, there is little reason for Vili to stay. “I will take my leave. It was… interesting to meet you, Hytham.” The words are perhaps a little too earnest in tone as they leave Vili’s mouth. Hytham looks over his shoulder, his green eyes shrewd.</p><p>“Then go in peace, Vili. You are welcome to the bureau any time you wish to peruse my collection again, or debate the true nature of glory.”</p><p>---</p><p>“The only thing Ravensthorpe is missing is a brothel,” Rollo declares loudly to the group after he downs the dregs of his eighth cup of wine. “Tekla’s mead is wonderful, but it only satisfies half of my great passions.” </p><p>“You ought to slow down, Rollo. Too much of one will lead to a lack of performance in the other,” Vili quips. Rollo flings a rude gesture in his direction, and Birna cackles from the other side of the fire.</p><p>It has been a good couple of days for the crew. Sound intel from Ravensthorpe’s scouts have reaped their rewards, and another inland monastery is unburdened of its treasures. Taking the horses (Rollo was quite adamant about avoiding the longship in Eivor’s absence) has allowed the group to take their time on the way home; drinking, eating, sparring, and hunting along the way. Sackfuls of supplies and precious metal will be celebrated, but there is little the Norse enjoy more than a large, fresh kill to roast over the fire pit. </p><p>Tonight is the last night on the road before they arrive home - Ravensthorpe will be in their sights by noon. Saxon wine from the monastery flows freely, and sparks and hot ash rise from their fire like sunbursts to throw light into the swallowing darkness of night. Rollo thumps down beside Vili, head slightly lolling on his shoulders as he does so. </p><p>“Have I told you the story of when I met Eivor? It was in a brothel, you know, in Colcestre,” he says, blinking hard to focus his eyes. Birna moves from her sitting spot to crouch down alongside them, her scarred face piqued with interest. </p><p>“Oooh, really? I never took her for the sort to… well, you know.”</p><p>“She’s not,” Vili says with his lips to his cup. He ignores the curious look Birna gives him; Rollo doesn’t seem to have acknowledged the interruption at all. </p><p>“There I was - bound by the hands, blindfolded, my breeches by my ankles, skin burning from the sweet sting of a lash - when I hear a voice. It’s husky, but feminine. I assume it’s another girl I’d requested, an old favourite. Absolute wild thing.” Rollo’s tongue rolls around his mouth at the memory. “The next thing I know there is a mighty bang at the door. Saxon soldiers, an army of them, looking for the one they call Rollo.” </p><p>Rollo pauses to pour himself more wine. It slops over the scorched earth and turns black as it soaks downwards. He drinks, belches, and smacks his lips together appreciatively in long, drawn out cycles. Vili and Birna look at each other. Is this an intentional dramatic pause, or is he simply too drunk to remember the next part? </p><p>Eventually, Birna yields. With a giggle and a slap on the back, she shakes Rollo’s shoulder to rouse him into the retelling. “What did the Saxon soldiers want with you?” she prompts.</p><p>“If I had stopped to ask I would not be here to tell you this story, though I’m quite sure it was something connected with capturing the Lady of Essexe and fucking her raw," Rollo grins wickedly. Birna’s mouth falls open, and Vili feels his eyebrows raise in surprise too. Contented with their reaction, Rollo continues.</p><p>“That is a story all on its own, one for another night. Anyway, I’m hanging there like a stuck pig, pulling on the cloth binding my wrists with all of my might. I hear another bang, only this one is as loud as a thunderclap. My ties suddenly loosen, I rip my blindfold off, and see this blonde-haired warrior sprinting towards me, bellowing at me to move! It is all I can do to pull up my britches, grab my hammer, and jump out the window before the soldiers come to their senses. She had knocked one of them clean out with the door.”</p><p>Birna breaks into a high pitched, shrieking laughter. “I would have paid good silver to see that!”</p><p>“Aye, it was a show.” Rollo concedes happily. He looks at the wine in his hands, and for a brief moment Vili sees a flash of clarity in Rollo’s hazy eyes. His tone drops, becoming sombre and low. “We fought well that day. Later, she helped me uncover a traitor in my camp. One that had led my crew to their deaths in my absence. A woman I had called a friend since childhood. After that, Ravensthorpe seemed to be the best place for me to begin anew.”</p><p>A momentary silence falls between Vili and Birna, as well as the other warriors now listening in. Birna’s hand twitches in a half-movement to reach out, but she seems to think better of it. </p><p>“Do you miss having your own crew?” Vili asks. Rollo rubs the back of his neck as he considers the question.</p><p>“Sometimes. Other times I am glad to be rid of the burden. The Nornir have sewn me a destiny of greatness, I feel this in my bones. But after seeing the bodies of my men piled up like fodder, I know have much to learn.” It is a naked and honest admission; not one that Vili is certain Rollo would make without being buoyed by the wine. Rollo drains his cup - number nine - and reaches over to slap Birna on the knee. “What about you, Birna? You were here before me.”</p><p>“My story is not quite as exciting as yours, little brother.” Birna smiles. “I served as an advisor under Soma Jarlskona of Grantebridge, the right hand of Guthrum Jarl. Eivor arrived at a time of great upheaval. We had been driven out of the city by the Saxon Wigmund, but no one could understand how Wigmund’s forces had penetrated the city walls. Eivor helped us capture the city back and smoke out the traitor in our midst.”</p><p>Birna’s words strike Vili’s ear oddly - they miss some of the pep and humour that colours most of her tales. He looks at her and sees that she fiddles with the ties of her boots.</p><p>“An impressive feat, but not enough to make you leave surely?” Rollo slurs. One of their raiding crew has taken it upon himself to refill Rollo’s wine for him, lest he water the partched soil with any more of it. Birna smiles, but the happy expression does not travel to her eyes.</p><p>“No. I was close with Soma. Before her, I was a smuggler. Supplies and weapons mostly, though I moved a fair few thralls in my time. Didn’t care who, or what, or how - I lived for my next handful of silver, and that was that. It was not an easy life, but it paid well enough. She was the first person in England to trust me, care for me, make me useful to a vision greater than myself. But she didn’t love me as I loved her.” Birna sighs and looks up to the sky, present with them and somehow far away all at once. “It is a terrible thing, to wish for the selfish love of someone who devotes their care to others in need. In time I realised I had to find my own purpose. Living my life to fulfil hers would never be enough.”</p><p>Rollo makes a wet coughing sound that sounds like it hides a sniff, but Vili is mute. He has done well to suppress thoughts of Eivor during this raid - it feels oddly hollow now when she is not there fighting by his side - but something about Birna’s story resonates more deeply in the fringes of his mind. After all, the unique pain of being separated from someone so close to your heart is not unfamiliar to him. He feels a hard lump form in his throat and swallows it down. </p><p>The wine must have loosened Vili’s face, for Birna reaches over to swot him, her sunny disposition now returned. “Don’t look at me like that,” she says brightly. “Pain makes us better, stronger. Besides, had I not left, we wouldn’t be sitting together, drinking the worst of wine from the fanciest of Christian cups.” She raises her gleaming golden chalice and is met with a chorus of applause. </p><p>Vili pushes the remains of those past torrid emotions to the back of his mind and smiles. “That we wouldn’t, and this wine truly is awful,” he concedes. “I suppose you would like to hear how I came to be here?” He can feel the question coming; it is better to head it off than delay the inevitable. </p><p>Rollo grunts, nose deep in his cup. “It would be rude not to contribute,” Birna says by ways of translation. </p><p>Vili looks at his hands, wondering where to start. In truth, he is in no mood to captivate the crew with stories of he and Eivor’s childhood, though it seems the natural place to start. None of it makes sense without those years in Norway - not to him anyway. </p><p>Some of the raiders twitch and stir from their sitting positions. Birna, who is trying to stop Rollo from leaning over the fire too closely, eyes him expectantly. </p><p>An abbreviated tale will have to do.</p><p>“Though Eivor and I grew up together, we were separated as teens when my father, Hemming Jarl, set sail for England.” Vili begins. “We settled in Snotinghamscire, which my father built from a wild and unforgiving land to a prosperous shire. Last winter was my tenth since saying our final goodbyes before I crossed the whale road. Imagine my surprise when I emerge from my tent one day, ready for another bloodletting of the Picts at Ulkerthorpe, and see Eivor standing by my father. More scarred and more tattooed than I remembered, but undeniably her.”</p><p>That sight is burned into Vili’s memory in more detail than any drawing could capture. He had noticed her hair first - wheat coloured and loosely braided, longer than how she had worn it when they were teens. Her arms were behind her back, fingers interlinked and loosely held at her tailbone, her weight ever so slightly shifting from foot to foot in quiet preparation for the battle to come. And, of course, there was the scar on her neck. It was lighter than Vili remembered, but still as gnarled and knotted as the roots of an yew tree.</p><p>He also remembers the flood of emotions on seeing her - surprise, relief, happiness, excitement, anticipation. But none of the words Vili can think of do the moment justice, so he moves on. </p><p>“When Eivor arrived in our lands, my father was already sick. I did not want to acknowledge it, mostly for fear of what it meant for me. As the only son of the Jarl, it would fall to me to lead my clan.” Some in the group exchange raised eyebrows. “I was taught how to govern, but never took those lessons into my heart. Eivor helped us drive the Picts back to the north, and when the time came, counselled me to see that the best decision for my people was to step aside for another.”</p><p>Vili looks up as he finishes his story and sees a number of wide eyes watching him out of the gloom of night. </p><p>“... And?” Birna presses.</p><p>Vili bristles. “And what? That is my story. Well, an abridged version, to keep our attentive audience awake.” He flicks his hand and gestures towards Rollo’s slumped figure, who is fighting sleep and appears to be losing.</p><p>“But you could have stayed in Snotinghamscire, could you not?” Birna asks, her round face twisted in thought. “I have heard tales of the wild Picts ravaging northern lands; there must have been plenty of them to fight.”</p><p>“There was. There is.”</p><p>“So why leave?”</p><p>“I left because…”</p><p>
  <em>Because seeing Trygve as Jarl in my father’s place felt too strange?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Because I owe Eivor this new freedom?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Because I couldn’t fathom separated from her again?</em>
</p><p>“... because she is my friend.” Vili finishes. His voice stutters and slips over the words; it sounds less certain than he intended. Birna’s wide eyes burn on him and he feels an uncomfortable heat nothing to do with the fire ripple across his chest and cheeks. Mercifully, Rollo stirs enough to draw Birna’s gaze away.</p><p>“Toast t’zat” he slurs into his empty cup. </p><p>“An excellent idea, little brother.” Birna raises her cup once more and draws up her voice to address the entire raiding crew. “A toast to friendship. May we live well, fight well, die well, and have some laughs along the way. Skål!”</p><p>“Skål!” Rollo shouts, and launches his cup over his head.</p><p>“Skål,” Vili says, and drains his wine in one long swallow. As the night descends into drunken chaos, Vili makes a mental note to better rehearse his stories in the future. He can spin yarns about battles, glory, and hunts with his eyes closed. But Eivor? Any story about her deserves a better retelling than he can give with a bellyful of sour English wine.</p><p>---</p><p>Randvi grips the cup Vili has brought her firmly by the stem and holds it to the light. It glitters and gleams as it catches the low afternoon sun; the wild beasts embossed around its curved golden body dancing as if come to life. “You bring back quite a hoard,” she remarks. “Certainly more impressive than the crew’s last outing.”</p><p>Vili chuckles and taps his foot against the heavy sack laying by his feet. It jangles and clanks noisily, betraying a rich contents of coins, jewellery, and fine artifacts. “We have your scouts to thank for that. Rollo is still quite sore about yielding his share to Eivor, but a bet is a bet.”</p><p>Randvi nods, eyes still affixed to the cup’s intricate decoration. In the short time he has known her, Vili has come to appreciate Randvi’s appreciation for fine detail. It is an attentiveness that she applies to all facets of her life, most of all in the daily running of a clan absent of both its leaders. Her days appear to be filled with a never-ending cycle of trades, talks, and meetings - duties that once sucked the life out of Vili, but seem to instil in her a great deal of satisfaction. In fact, it’s a small miracle that he arrived today to find her alone in the longhouse’s great hall, unencumbered by another gaggle of merchants and scouts vying for her attention.</p><p>Her eyes raise from the cup’s glinting edge. “Did you visit Hytham?”</p><p>He had hoped Randvi would broach this subject. His visit to the bureau has played on Vili’s mind for days, and for the life of him, he is no closer to understanding why Eivor might have wanted him to go there. It certainly was not to gather information, nor was it to find a kindred spirit - even a short time in Hytham’s company had told Vili that the two men were worlds apart in worldview and temperament. Randvi, with her keen eye and ear to the ground with most of Ravensthrope’s goings on, is his best chance for further clarity. </p><p>“I did,” Vili says. “He is a strange character. Hardly of interest to me, unless I should ever wish to send a letter.” </p><p>Randvi’s eyes flicker and her mouth opens in an expression crossed between surprise, puzzlement, and dismay. “Send a letter? You don’t mean to say you were never taught to -”</p><p>Vili knows where this is going. “I know how to read and write,” he huffs, cutting her off as an affronted scowl momentarily clouds his features. “Runes and Saxon English, if you must know. I am not as bone-headed as I look.”</p><p>“Oh.” Randvi’s ears turn pink as she turns her attention to the cup once more. “I didn’t mean offense. But you judge too quickly, there is more to man’s value than his ability to swing an axe.”</p><p>There it is again - that little sharp edge. Randvi presses on: “Eivor seems committed to helping Hytham complete whatever mission he has in England. Perhaps she believes you can help.”</p><p>It makes some sense, though Vili is less than enthused at the prospect. “What can you tell me about this mission?”</p><p>“Not much.” Randvi admits. “I have come to know Hytham well since we landed in England, but I cannot say I understand his brotherhood or his goals any more than I did on the first day he arrived in Fornburg. They seek to destroy a rival clan named The Order of the Ancients. Eivor told me when Sigurd was first taken hostage.” A line of concern creases her forehead. “I don’t think she meant to tell me. Her rage loosened her tongue more than it should have.”</p><p>One by one, tiny fragments of the picture are being unveiled. Vili breathes deeply and reflects on the shards of information he has collected. </p><p>“Hytham said he fights against injustice. Is that what this Order creates?”</p><p>Randvi takes a long moment to answer. Her eyes flicker around the room as if trying to find the right words to capture her sentiment in a way that will not be misconstrued. “Injustice is relative,” she eventually replies. “Basim and Hytham do not follow Norse law - their justice is measured and executed through means only known to themselves. I am unsure if even Sigurd and Eivor know their true motives.”</p><p>Vili leans forward, pressing his callused hands to the table. “So what is worrying you, Randvi? Their morals or their trustworthiness?”</p><p>By her expression, Randvi does not know how to answer that question. She pulls her fingers through her thick auburn braid, her eyes deep in thought. They seem to focus on something far away from Vili, past his head and towards the sunlit sliver of the town visible from the table. </p><p>“Basim and Hytham have never given us reason to doubt the goodness of their intentions, but the number of people who call Ravensthorpe home grows daily. Their prosperity relies on the steady leadership of Eivor and Sigurd.” Somewhere in the distance, a group of children burst into raucous laughter. The sound makes the edges of Randvi’s mouth crack into a wistful smile. “It is them I worry for. They deserve a Jarl whose focus is on their safety and happiness on these shores, not a fight bathed in shadows.”</p><p>Her sentiment strikes Vili’s heart with unexpected force. Had Randvi really put it into so few words? People <em>deserve </em>a Jarl who cares only for them. Vili’s mind floods with thoughts of his former life. Snotinghamscire had deserved Hemming Jarl. They deserved Trygve. </p><p>Vili loved the people, but he would have never been enough. He is too brash, too distracted, too selfish. He knows all of this, and yet it stings all the same.</p><p>A forlorn, bitter feeling for a title he never wanted. Expectation is a funny thing.</p><p>In front of him Randvi coughs lightly, snapping Vili back into the present moment. He throws her a rueful smile.</p><p>“I understand. I worry for them too.”</p><p>Her hand reaches out to pat his forearm. “I thought you might.”</p><p>Before Vili can say any more, there is the noise of hurried footsteps from outside. A scout, dressed in rich blue and clutching a crumpled note in his hand, hurries forward. “Randvi, a message,” he pants.</p><p>Randvi stands, taking the note and dismissing the scout with a flick of her wrist. Her eyes dart back and forth, scanning the letter at lightning speed before raising her gaze to meet Vili.</p><p>“It’s Eivor. She calls her Ravens to Suthsexe.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Just wanted to take a moment to say thank you for everyone who has read my daft wee story so far. I love and appreciate all your feedback (and patience!) on this pairing and piece. </p><p>Normal programming (i.e. Vili and Eivor adventures with copious childhood flashbacks) will resume next chapter.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Ambush</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>For some reason, this chapter had to be pulled out of me kicking and screaming. I hope you enjoy it.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Vili arrives at the eastern woods of Portcestre as the ground begins to weep blood.</p><p>To his keen eye, the battle harbours the tell-tale signs of an ambush: faint curls of smoke from the uphill camp, men lying dead in the long grass with missing leather and chainmail armour, their axes and swords still sheathed. Amongst the bodies the fighting is rushed, crazed, chaotic. The clashing of metal rings in Vili's ears as he dismounts his horse and slaps it hard on the flank, shooing the mare away from danger. <em>At least the Norse had the high ground</em>, he thinks in a daze. <em>They saw them coming. It could have been far worse.</em></p><p>The first Saxon he meets does not see him approach. Vili’s axe comes down swift and heavy, biting through cloth and tearing flesh from bone at the seam of neck and shoulder. As the Saxon falls, another steps forward bearing a pike. He jabs and swings wildly without finesse. It takes less than a second for Vili to sidestep his attacker and put an end to such foolishness. </p><p>One by one, he cleaves his way through Saxons. Their screams and shouts are drowned out by the sound of the blood rushing in his ears, of his heart beating hard and strong against his chest. The ground underfoot gets more treacherous with every passing foe, the slip of guts adding an additional hazard to the uneven slope. Every inch of him is alive, taut, aware.</p><p>Then, a voice cuts through the din. It is gravelly and raw, powerful and full of fire. “Push them back!” it roars, and the Norsemen’s noise swells to meet it.</p><p><em>Eivor</em>.</p><p>Vili turns sharply. She fights higher on the hill, face blood splattered and wild with anger. Behind her fights a man who, amidst the sea of swirling red and blue, sticks out like a sore thumb. He is a blur of white and plated metal, fighting in a style Vili has never seen before. It is fluid, acrobatic, almost beautiful to watch. But there is no time to dwell on curiosities in the heat of battle. </p><p>The Saxon army begins to fall and thin. More Norse warriors appear from behind Vili, pressing into the opposing forces, sending them tumbling backwards over their own dead. He can see Eivor in the corner of his eye now, dispatching men with axe and shield like a woman possessed. </p><p>Her focus is forwards and blinkered only with the thought of driving the Saxon’s back. It is working, the Saxons begin to scatter - but not before one, large and unsteady, climbs to his feet behind her. Vili sees this unfold before Eivor does. For a moment his blood is frozen, feet rooted in place as he watches the Saxon twist the sword in his hand. And then, suddenly, an adrenaline-filled explosion of movement. </p><p>Vili finds Eivor’s forearm and pulls hard, yanking her sideways and out of the path of a sword to the gut. Energy flows from one arm to the other as Vili’s axe descends, and he feels a vibration deep in his bones as a familiar shattering <em>crack</em> echoes in the trees. The Saxon stands, wide eyed and mouth agape. A thin trickle of blood runs from where the axe has lodged in his brow. He drops to his knees, then to the ground. Vili’s blood-slick weapon does not require much prying to be freed.</p><p>There is another hiss of metal - shorter and sharper than a sword, almost imperceptible amongst the roar of battle. Vili looks to Eivor and sees her free arm raised and drawn back, ready to strike. Her face is twisted and almost unrecognisable with fury. But then she blinks, focuses on who it is that holds her, and the maelstrom behind her eyes dissipates. “You’re here,” is all she can manage, stammering with a voice that is breathless and hoarse. The blade on her wrist retracts as she wipes the blood splatter on her face into an iron-tinged smear. </p><p>There is so much Vili can make of the look she gives him - surprise at his presence, relief that the Raven Clan's war band have finally arrived, irritated dismay that after all this time he <em>still</em> doesn’t know better than to startle her. There is so much can be said, should be said. But there is no time. The Saxon army fight on, and so too must they.</p><p>Vili tightens the grip of Eivor’s arm and pulls her sharply towards the next sorry band of men in red. They will fight the rest of this together.</p><p>---</p><p>It does not take long for the last of Fulke’s troops to sense that the battle is lost. A cry of retreat comes from Portcestre, and those who still can begin to turn and flee towards the safety of its walls. </p><p>Vili spins in place, his grip still tight on his axe, but there are no Saxons left between the trees. When he is quite sure there is no imminent danger, he allows himself a few deep, heavy breaths. The axe loosens in his hands. It is a beautifully crafted weapon, but heavy and unwieldy in the hands of the inexperienced. For a fleeting moment, Vili wishes he had something lighter - perhaps a spear, his father’s favoured weapon. But there is something about this massive axe that just feels right, in spite of the numbness in his arms and the fire in his lungs. It is solid, weighty; it grounds him to the earth no matter where his mind wanders. It demands focus, strength, respect. </p><p>But even so, it would be nice to not feel quite so out of breath at the end of battle.</p><p>With a grunt, Vili heaves his axe upwards and slots its handle into the thick leather loop on his back. Eivor has pressed forward without him, chasing the Saxons to the lip of the forest. From his vantage point Vili can just see her shape amongst the Raven Clan. “They flee like rabbits!” she shouts, and he is content to hear the rough joy in her voice. </p><p>Vili takes his time as he moves down the hill. The volume of bodies to step over demands a degree of care, but more than that, he is not a man to stomach unnecessary suffering. Vili listens for moans or laboured breathing as he walks, picking up discarded weapons and snuffing the last remains of life out of the Saxon fallen where necessary. As he goes about this bloody business, the sparks of adrenaline dancing beneath his skin begin to subside. But the next sensation is not the tired ache he expects - instead he feels hot, radiating pain. </p><p>Vili pauses and frowns, confused. Slowly he begins to register the pain’s source as somewhere between his shoulder and collarbone. Had he been struck? The wet soak of his tunic and cloak would suggest so, though Vili does not remember any one instance of that familiar bite of metal into flesh. He raises his fingers to his shoulder, and hisses with pain as they come back red. </p><p>“Are you hurt?”</p><p>Another unfamiliar voice with an unfamiliar accent. Vili looks towards the speaker and sees who he assumes is Basim standing before him. He looks older than Vili imagined, though perhaps it's just his eyes, for his skin does not show any of the tell-tale scarring of a well-worn warrior. For a man who has just emerged from the thick of battle, he is remarkably clean looking, save for a thin sheen of sweat on his brow. His white robes remain mostly white; his armour still gleams in the broken daylight. <em>What a contrast I must be</em>, Vili thinks. <em>Bloodied and dirty and breathing like a worked ox</em>.</p><p>But still, first impressions are first impressions. Vili draws his chest up and firmly pushes the hot ache of his shoulder to the back of his mind. </p><p>“I can still stand and swing an axe, so no, I am not.”</p><p>The answer seems to satisfy Basim, who nods appreciatively. “Good. We will need all of our strength for the fight to come - it does not do to lose capable warriors so early. And from what I have heard, you are most capable, Vili Hemmingson.”</p><p>Vili does his best to shrug, playing off the praise coolly. “I have also heard much about you, Basim.”</p><p>“Our reputations seem to proceed us,” Basim replies with a small smile. Vili can’t put his finger on it, but there is something unnerving about Basim’s expression. It is cunning, thoughtful - Vili has the distinct impression he is not only being watched, but studied. </p><p>A strangled cry and a collective intake of breath comes from the wood’s entrance, breaking the moment of relative peace. Eivor’s voice rings out over the gasps and shouts - “No!” - and heavy footsteps follow. The commotion gives Vili cause to follow, but no sooner does he step forward, he feels a pressure on his chest. Basim's hand presses firmly into Vili’s leather chest plate, his eyes shrewd.</p><p>“Did you not hear me? Save your strength. Besides, it is her fight. She will not thank you for getting involved.”</p><p>That much is true, and Vili knows it. Helping a friend in the thick of battle is one thing, but stealing their glory is quite another. He sighs and brushes Basim’s hand away, irritated. </p><p>“You seem to know more about our ways than your apprentice.”</p><p>“It is my job to observe those around me.”</p><p>Vili looks around the battlefield once more. He is getting used to the way these men speak - saying something and nothing all at once. “If that is true, you’ll know how we treat our dead.” He gestures to the men and women, their brothers and sisters, now lying in the bloodied grass. “There are many bodies to move. Will you help me?”</p><p>Basim nods, and together they begin their sad work. The Christian Saxons will rot where they fell, but allies of the Raven Clan will be rewarded and remembered for their sacrifice. For all the loss today, there is small comfort in that.</p><p>---</p><p>More people have begun to clear the field when Vili sees Eivor once more. She powers up the hill, face white and solemn, an unknown man with all colour drained from him heaped over her shoulders. Basim has already excused himself, explaining his intention to head off any explosive confrontation with Guthrum Jarl. Vili wishes him luck. He knows Guthrum - a huge, intimidating man with a force of will to match. Meeting him as a young man had set Vili’s teeth on edge, and that was in the company of his father, where all expectations and interest was mercifully diverted from him. Vili feels a small, icy shiver crawl up his spine as he imagines the clashing of Eivor and Guthrum. She always did have a habit of picking fights with the worst of opponents.</p><p>Anticipating some fallout, Vili begins to make his way uphill. He is slower than he would like to be - while his breath evened long ago, the wound on his shoulder continues to drain his energy. Hauling bodies around has certainly not helped, but needs must. He would like to think that his kinsmen would do the same for him when the time comes.</p><p>The tops of tents and shelters are just coming into view when Vili hears Guthrum’s booming voice vibrating through the trees. The cadence is measured, but there is no mistaking the undercurrent of anger. </p><p>“You are supposed to be a leader. So listen now. You want your jarl back, you must be cold as frost. Bravery is your enemy as often as your friend. We do not dash ourselves against hopeless causes. We arrive unexpected, strike swift. Gather your allies. Pick your moment. Then, and only then… you crush them.”</p><p>Vili pauses, captivated by Guthrum’s words. There is no doubting that message was for Eivor - only someone as stubborn as she could get a rise like that out of the Jarl.</p><p>Vili thinks so deeply on the words that he does not initially see Guthrum approaching, only snapping his head up when Guthrum’s long shadow covers the toes of his boots. Guthrum seems to do a double take, staring at Vili’s face for a long moment before his eyes light up with recognition.</p><p>“Vili! I have not seen you since you were a boy!” Guthrum barks as he brings a broad hand down on Vili’s uninjured shoulder. Vili grits his teeth and says a silent  prayer of thanks to the Gods that it wasn’t the other one. “You’re involved not in this madness, are you?”</p><p>Vili manages a smile. Guthrum is just as he remembers - tall, powerful, commanding. Vili may have grown since they last met, but standing on this uneven hill, he is once again quite conscious of standing a head shorter than the mighty Jarl. It is not a feeling he is used to.</p><p>“Eivor has many allies in England. If she calls, we come.”</p><p>“Hmm.” Guthrum’s whiskers twitch with a sound that is caught between thoughtful and disappointed. His hand slips from Vili’s shoulder and comes to rest on the pommel of his sword.</p><p>“I heard about your father. I am sorry. He was a good man.” </p><p>“Thank you. He was a strong leader, but a better father.”</p><p>“I was surprised to hear you did not take his place as Jarl.” Guthrum’s tone is light, but Vili is too long in the tooth to know that there is a question hidden under those words. Guthrum’s eyes are sharp and probing as he watches Vili expectantly. </p><p>“My talents are not best suited to governance or diplomacy, Guthrum Jarl. Right now I am where I need to be, where I am most useful.” </p><p>“Hmm.” Guthrum grunts again. This time his voice more definitely lands on the side of disappointment. He turns, nodding his head back to the crest of the hill. “Your friend skirts a dangerous line, Vili. She is blind to the destruction she causes. If it continues, Sigurd may not have a clan to lead when he returns.”</p><p>Vili looks upwards and sees Eivor. She is partially turned from him, her face caught between shadow and light, but even from here Vili can see her eyes full of sorrow and unease. She is not blind to the destruction, nor immune to it. But Vili can understand the deeper meaning of Guthrum’s words. Campaigns are not always measured in lives lost. There can be other, more devastating costs - trust lost, alliances shared, bonds broken.</p><p>Guthrum lets a heavy, deep huff from the very bottom of his chest. “I wish you well, Vili Hemmingson. May you find glory following your own path, not that of a half-mad woman.” His final words come out in a gruff growl, but Guthrum’s expression is painted with concern as he leaves.</p><p>Vili continues up the hill, head swimming with Guthrum’s words. Unlike Basim and Hytham who seem to say so little of substance, Guthrum is the opposite - Vili feels he will need at least a week to unpack what had passed between them in such a short conversation. A groan escapes his lips as Eivor and her allies come into clearer view. Physical pain was one thing, but Vili has no patience for this particular kind of headache. Never did he think he would miss the simple bickering of Birna and Rollo after a fight but… well, here he was. </p><p>Some of the men and women gathered are familiar faces to Vili. He recognises Ubba from his visits to Halfdan's court. Ljufvina of Jorvik also stands with Eivor. She sees Vili approaching and offers him a small, acknowledging nod. Vili returns the gesture, glad to see another Northerner making her mark on these tepid southern lands. </p><p>Eivor is already speaking as Vili approaches, her voice low and full of command. She addresses the group with her back to Vili. The gathered warriors listen to her every word, and for a moment Vili is carried by it too. “We will wait for our allies before the final attack. Until then, we have work to do,” she rumbles. As they group walk towards the overturned crate in the centre of the largest tent, Eivor pauses. She turns back, finding Vili’s eyes in an instant, and it suddenly occurs to him that she was aware of his presence behind her the whole time.</p><p>“Must you always be at the horse’s arse?” she asks in half-jest. Vili shrugs, and together they walk to join the group.</p><p>---</p><p>It is a little while until Vili sees Eivor again. After agreeing their next steps and sending everyone out on their respective assignments, the group has scattered. Some leave right away; others choose to find a spot in camp and recuperate before the next fight. For all of the bodies in their camp, Eivor is nowhere to be found. </p><p>That is, of course, if you don’t know where to look.</p><p>Vili finds Eivor sitting at the base of a wide oak tree, sheltered from view by its huge canopy. She holds her axe in one hand and a piece of cloth in the other. Though she doesn’t acknowledge Vili’s presence, he knows she is aware of her incoming visitor.</p><p>“I thought I might find you hiding between the trees.”</p><p>Eivor presses the cloth into the crevices of the axe’s delicate decorative metalwork, not bothering to look up. “And I wondered when you might come skulking around,” she replies dryly. “You have better brought something to drink.” </p><p>Vili grunts. He unfastens a skin from his belt and throws it onto her lap, toppling the jars of oil and wax reserved for buffing and polishing her weaponry with a symphony of clinks. Eivor makes a tutting noise through her teeth as he lowers himself to sit beside her, deliberately nudging her over to lean his back against the tree’s trunk.</p><p>“You’re easy to find, Wolf-Kissed. You clean and sharpen your weapons after every use, just you have done since we were children. I merely followed the sounds of a sharpening stone and the jingle of jars.”</p><p>“And just as we were children, you refuse to let me do this in peace,” Eivor chides, though there is no venom in her words and even less in the curl of her mouth. He is glad to see some of her humour return to her. Ambushes like today’s have a way of sucking the sweetness out of victory.</p><p>Eivor sets to work removing the streaks of blood from her blade, her fingers nimble and quick, the process methodical. “How many Saxons did you kill today?” she asks. “I know you still keep count.”</p><p>“Thirteen. And you?”</p><p>Eivor’s lips curl upwards in a more obvious smirk. “More than thirteen.”</p><p>Vili rolls his eyes. “Of <em>course</em> you did. The ones already on the ground don’t count, you know.”</p><p>“Still more than thirteen.” </p><p>She leans over, pushing her weight into him in a playful nudge, but retracts quickly as an unexpected rasp of pain leaves Vili’s throat. His shoulder wound explodes with searing pain once more as its ragged edge is dragged against the tree bark. Vili looks to Eivor, and sees her blue eyes are wide with shock.</p><p>“You’re hurt."</p><p>“No, I’m -” Vili begins, but it's no use. Like lightning Eivor has pushed all of her supplies from her knees and now crouches over Vili, one foot on each side of his thighs, her quick fingers unpinning the brooch that fastens his cloak. </p><p><em>Fuck</em>, Vili thinks weakly. Partly because he hates when she does this - unnecessary worrying and even less necessary prodding of his injuries. She can be gentle when she wants to be (if recent experiences have taught him anything), but Vili knows she seldom sees reason to do so with him. He often wonders if her rough ways are some kind of roundabout punishment, a little extra pain for getting himself hurt once again.</p><p>But it's not just that, is it? Vili’s mouth goes dry and he turns his head, acutely aware of his pulse quickening like a hare’s.</p><p>This is the closest she has been since… that night. </p><p><em>No</em>, Vili tells himself sternly, commanding his mind to pull itself out of its daze. <em>I am not thinking about that. Not now.</em></p><p>Pain rips through him one again as Eivor unbuckles his armour and releases the strap from his shoulder. The lack of pressure pulls at his tunic, dislodging dried blood and ripped skin with it. “Get off me, my chances are better without your nursing,” he growls, and gives Eivor a shove with his free hand.</p><p>She turns abruptly, ice blue eyes snapping to his. “Shut up Vili,” she spits, her voice is steeped in threat as she hunches over him once more. The savage, primal part of Vili’s brain wonders exactly what kind of threat that is, though his rational mind swiftly takes over. It wouldn’t be the first black eye she’d given him, and probably not the last.</p><p>She moves closer, and Vili notices that Eivor’s knee is now jammed quite solidly against his good arm, pinning it to the tree in case he tries to push her off again. Her head lines up with his, and he can feel the softness of her breath on his neck as she slowly pries the fabric of his tunic from the wound.</p><p>Her blonde braids kiss Vili’s cheek as she cranes to get a better look. Underneath the sweat and blood her hair smells like honey and woodsmoke, just as it had in his dreams. Vili groans and turns his head away further from her. It is a vastly unwelcome, if effective, distraction from her incessant picking. </p><p>With the tunic now separated from his skin, Eivor pushes it aside and wipes at the sides of the wound with the same cloth that cleaned her axe. A low, continuous growl escapes her throat as she does so - a noise that Vili can translate with no prompt. <em>Idiot. The longer you leave blood, the harder it is to clean. You know this.</em></p><p>Old habits have died hard over the last ten winters without her scolding. If she reacts like this to a little cut, she is going to be furious when she sees the state of his weaponry.</p><p>Eventually, the rubbing stops. Eivor discards the now rust-coloured cloth behind her and presses her fingers lightly around the wound. Her face is so close Vili can feel the heat of her cheek on his neck. </p><p>“It is a large cut, but quite shallow. Should be fine with a proper dressing.”</p><p>Her fingers press a little too hard, and Vili hisses as agony shoots down his arm. “With friends like this, who needs healers?” he says, voice dripping with sarcasm. Eivor does not respond, but he can feel her chest move in a silent chuckle. </p><p>Normally this is where they would part; Eivor with a grin that borders on self-satisfied, Vili with a scowl that could conjure thunder. But this time, Eivor doesn’t move. Her fingers stay on his skin, light and hot, moving from the open flesh to the edge of an older wound. The scar she finds is one of Vili’s largest; a wide and ugly thing, only partly visible from Eivor’s current position. It runs the length of his back, arching in an inelegant curve to his hip below. Despite his better judgement, Vili turns his head a fraction to look at Eivor out the corner of his eye.</p><p>Her eyes stare downwards at his skin, interested and intense as she presses the pads of her fingertips to the knots of sinewy tissue. The look confuses Vili - had she not noticed it during that night at Odin’s Hovel? </p><p>“This scar is impressive. I bet there is a good story behind it.”</p><p>It is only then that the thought even crosses Vili’s mind that, if his memories of that night are veiled in fog, perhaps hers are too.</p><p>He lifts his shoulder from the tree trunk, permitting Eivor’s fingers to twitch and ghost across the scar’s expanse further. Despite himself, despite the pain, he craves the warmth of her touch. Vili turns his head more fully to speak to her, and sees that the fading light of the evening sun bathes her face in soft shades of orange and pink. The deep scar that accentuates the line of her cheek throws its own shadow - intriguing and mesmerising all at once.</p><p>“Many of my scars do. Unfortunately, I seldom get the chance to tell them. Few of my war wounds are as striking as yours.”</p><p>The words escape Vili’s mouth before he can think them through, and are followed with immediate regret. Eivor tenses for a moment, then pulls back to her haunches, her hands departing his skin without ceremony. The wide grin spreading across her face indicates that she is going to remember that ‘striking’ comment for a long, <em>long</em> time.</p><p>Vili not-so-subtly thuds his head on the tree trunk, frustrated. At least this might replace the Arse-Stick jibe for a while.</p><p>Finally, the pressure of her knee numbing his good arm is released, and Vili takes the opportunity to push her off properly. “Leave me, I have no need for your fussing. Though I will take back my mead to numb the pain.”</p><p>“Fine,” Eivor chuckles, resuming her position by his side and taking a swig from the skin before passing it to him. Vili takes a long, long drink, and hopes he can contribute any reddening of his skin to that.</p><p>Slowly, the grin on Eivor’s face fades. She picks up her axe once more and looks down at it contemplatively. “Did you overhear Guthrum Jarl before he departed?”</p><p>“Parts of it.”</p><p>Eivor elbows him, though she is far gentler this around. “You’re still a terrible liar. I could see you downhill, your eavesdropping is as subtle as church bells. Do you think his words were true?”</p><p>Vili looks at his feet, feeling once more the weight of Guthrum's words to him. “His tactics are sound.”</p><p>"I wasn’t asking about that part," Eivor says in a withering tone normally reserved for when she thinks Vili is being particularly dim witted. Vili puffs out a sigh.</p><p>“Then yes, he speaks some truth. Boldness must be tempered with a level head. But he is also wrong about you. It is not coldness that will bring Sigurd back to you - it is fire. Fury. That burning bullheadedness of yours has cowed half of England, and will flatten Portcestre before the week is out.”</p><p>Eivor raises her eyebrows to that, evidently surprised at Vili’s position. “My bullheadedness led to a field full of corpses today. I killed all the scouts we knew of, and Fulke still ambushed us,” she says bitterly.</p><p>Vili wants to say it’s that very feeling that will secure Eivor her victory. Her care, her feeling, the fact she carries the burden of those lives on her shoulders whether she should or not. Those qualities make her the leader she is. Ice cannot bear such weight, only passion can. Only <em>she </em>can. </p><p>But then he looks at the profile of her face - quiet and pensive and brooding - and knows these words will fall on deaf ears. Her mind is too focussed, her grief too fresh. She will spurn any notion that she is special, even if it seems like the most obvious thing in the world to Vili.</p><p>“You are not responsible for other men’s choices, nor their deaths. We cannot understand the will of the Gods, only court their favour and hope they are with us.”</p><p>Eivor snorts dismissively at Vili’s words. “The All-Father’s will is not as complex as you think,” she mutters. Vili stares at her, perplexed.</p><p>“What do you mean?”</p><p>“I mean… I mean only to say that Odin’s greed has swallowed many souls today. I can see no other reason for it.”</p><p>There is something about the way Eivor stumbles over her words that gives Vili the feeling he is once again being fed a half-truth, though on the subject of the Gods he cannot understand where the diversion might lead. </p><p>Then, without warning, Eivor moves her hand over his and grips it tightly. It isn’t a new sensation - a friendly gesture, a signal of trust - but something feels... different. Her skin is warm and soft from the waxes and oils she buffs into her blades. Whatever worries were manifesting in Vili’s head melt away, replaced only by the sole wish that they stay like this a while longer.</p><p>“I was relieved to see you today on the battlefield.”</p><p>Vili raises his eyebrows. “Oh? Before or after I saved you from being skewered on a Saxon sword?”</p><p>“Both,” Eivor smiles. “It warms my heart to have refound our friendship amidst such loss. It gives me hope that Sigurd too can be saved. That he will still be himself, in spite of what he might have suffered.”</p><p>Her word choice - refound - sticks with Vili like the heat from a roaring fire. To him, there could be nothing more apt. The bond they shared has never broken, never dimmed; it was merely stored away, waiting for that day in Snotinghamscire to be shared once more.</p><p>Of course, such things can change when brought back to the fore. But that is a concern for another day.</p><p>“I am glad to be of service to you and your clan."</p><p>“They are your clan now too,” Eivor corrects, her own eyebrow arched in an expectant sort of way. </p><p>Vili does not answer. He knows what she is doing. No matter how long they have been parted, Eivor knows him better than anybody living or dead. She knows what that idea - to be part of a clan - means to him. </p><p>Because it’s not just a community, it’s a responsibility. To protect them. To feed them. To help them thrive, to grow. Eivor knows all of this, and now asks this of him. Not for the clan that he was trained to lead, but for hers and Sigurd’s. All the things he has learned, all the values he holds in his heart.</p><p>He wonders if the Raven Clan will ever feel like a true home to him, as his father’s clan once did.</p><p>Somewhere amidst his thoughts, Vili feels the back of his hand go cold in the English evening air once more. Eivor stands, brushing herself off and attaching her axe back to her belt with an fluid grace.</p><p>“You know, after this work is done, I would like to sit with you. Share a feast, swap stories. It’s been too long.” Her knuckles brush along the scarred contour of her cheek before extending a hand to Vili, helping him up. “Perhaps I can tell you about the warrior who gave me this <em>striking</em> scar, if you will tell me the tale of how you managed to lose a chunk of your back.”</p><p>“Perhaps I can give you a scar on the other cheek to match instead,” Vili snaps with toothless menace. They walk back towards the camp with easy countenance, tossing empty threats at one another, each full of the quiet joy of seeing another day out.</p><p>And yet, something sparks in Vili’s stomach at the Eivor’s proposition. To sit with her, listen to her, still feels like dreaming. Their bodies hold so many stories in ink and scar tissue that stand silent, unshared.</p><p>And though he won’t admit it, Vili wants to know hers. He wants to know them all.</p><p>---</p><p>
  <em>“Now, once more. If a foe attacks you head on with a spear, you will…”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Move sideways, flank him if I can. The spear is too long and too heavy to be moved quickly,” Vili recited, side stepping and running the arc of his wooden sword across his body just as Hemming had taught him. The wooden point sliced thin air soundlessly, though in Vili’s mind it made the satisfying whistle of blade metal. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Good, good," Hemming chuckled. "Now Eivor, let’s see you try.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Eivor stepped to her mark, tongue peeking through her lips in concentration. Vili didn’t think much of the way she twirled her training sword for the killing blow and bit his tongue to avoid saying so. In his father’s presence, there was only ever one teacher. Vili had been reminded of that rule more than once today already. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Vili had seen twelve winters now, and wished for a real blade more than anything in the world. The wooden training swords were clunky and full of splinters that pricked the skin, especially after hours of practice. Compared to those, even the oldest of blades were beautiful, shiny and sharp. At night he dreamed of owning a mighty weapon of his own - one with a soft leather handle and a cutting edge that made a soft hiss as it was unsheathed. A weapon filled with excitement, adventure, and promise.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>As Hemming corrected Eivor’s form Vili turned around, swishing the dummy weapon back and forth while willing time to go faster. It made the same dull sounds until, quite suddenly, a metallic swish rang through the air. Vili blinked, looking down at the wood stupidly. It took a moment for him to realise that it wasn’t his sword that had made the noise, but a guard who now stood behind him.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>The guard in question held his weapon loosely in his hand, eyeing the children cautiously before addressing his Jarl. “Hemming Jarl, I am sorry to intrude. We found Kjotve’s scout. He was inside our walls.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Kjotve. Where did he know that name? Vili looked at his father to see Hemming’s face suddenly contorted with rage. “Did you capture him?” Hemming asked quickly. The guard shuffled his feet.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“We did, but, uh…”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>There seemed to be an exchange of looks that Vili could not quite follow. He looked to Eivor and saw she was equally confused, her little brow tied up in knots.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Eventually Hemming heaved a mighty sigh. “Get him off the street and bring him in here. Search him for information.” He dismissed the guard with a flick of the wrist, and the man was gone in an instant. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>A million questions spilled into Vili's mind like a boiling pot filled too high, but something in Hemming’s expression muted him. A moment later, a mix of the loud dragging and muffled breathing began to seep through the walls. The guard returned with another man in tow, their knees buckled as they pulled a heavy heap of bloody cloth into the room. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Except it wasn’t just cloth. It was boots, too. And gloves, and a leather chest plate. And a face. A human face, though this was like no man Vili had ever seen before.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Its skin was the colour of soured cream - waxy and slightly yellowed. The eyes were open, but a milky film covered the unseeing pupils like thick mist. Beneath a crusted bloody nose its mouth hung open wide and loose. And in its hollow depths,Vili could see a bloody stump where a tongue should be. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>The sight made Vili’s heart hammer against his ribcage as if it was trying to escape his chest, though he was unsure why. He wasn’t even sure what it was he was looking at. Whatever it was, the being was of no world Vili knew.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Eivor? Eivor!” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>The sound of his father’s voice dragged Vili back into the present. He turned and he saw that Hemming was crouched, his battle-worn hands pressed firmly on either side of Eivor’s pale face. Like Vili, Eivor’s eyes were transfixed on the body that had been dropped so unceremoniously on the floor. But her eyes were not filled with morbid curiosity - hers were wide, far away, filled with memories and pain and fear like Vili had never seen. Her mouth opened and closed soundlessly, screaming into a soundless void, her hands trembling at her sides.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>She was paralysed with terror.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Vili stood utterly numb, caught between this unmoving stranger and his best friend in the coaxing hands of his father. Time that had dragged so slowly only moments ago seemed to stop entirely. Hemming spoke to Eivor in a voice that was low and quiet, a warm hum that Vili could not understand. Whatever he said, it seemed to ease her back to herself, for she soon began to sputter, and tears began to fall in thick streams.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Eventually Hemming straightened, patting Eivor’s unkempt braids as he did so. “Child, I think it's time for you to go home. Go on.” Without a word Eivor ran from the room. From the sound of her footsteps, she did not slow until she reached the snow outside.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Now alone with his father, Vili pushed down an urge to run as well. There was something in his Hemming’s face that made Vili understand his place was here - for better or worse. Heart beating noisily in his ears, Vili swallowed hard and broke the silence.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Is he...?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Dead? Yes.” Hemming said flatly as he eyed his son intently for any sign of a reaction. It was all Vili could do to manage a small nod. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>One by one, the questions of a curious boy began to spring back into his momentarily blank mind. He knew about death: about Hel, Valhalla, Folkvangr, the Realm of Rán and the Burial Mound - but there was so much he didn’t know. Why did the skin change its colour? What happened to his tongue? Why had Vili's heart quickened on sight of this man? </em>
</p><p>
  <em>But for now, only one question was pressing.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Why did you send Eivor away?"</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“She has already seen death, Vili. More than one should for a girl her age.” Hemming reached out and placed a warm hand on the back of Vili’s head. In spite of his boyish ego Vili leaned into it, comforted by the strong grip. “I think this reminded her of her parents. I should have known.” Hemming's last words carried an edge of angry bitterness - fury directed at himself, Vili knew. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>They stood there for a minute, still and quiet, both looking at the dead scout in front of them. Eventually Hemming approached, reached down, and pulled at the man’s dirty armour. The plates shifted upwards to expose a wide, messy wound in his abdomen, thick and fat with tar-like blood. Vili’s stomach churned instantly at the sight. His mind screamed for him to turn away, but Hemming’s expression was resolute. Vili knew he had no choice but to watch.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“I had this man brought in to show you why you must learn to wield a weapon properly before carrying a blade, my son. They are dangerous tools. A man who cannot use a weapon properly is a danger to himself and others.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Hemming removed his hand from the body. The armour shifted back in place, though it now did little to mask what Vili knew lay beneath. Was this what all death looked like? </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Did my mother look like this when she died?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Vili didn’t register saying those words out loud until he saw Hemming’s face twist its way into its own white shock. His ears flamed hot and stomach twisted, a wash of pure panic engulfing him like a wave. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Hemming never spoke of his wife. All Vili knew of his mother had been learned from Trygve’s stories: her wicked humour, her deep black hair and stormy grey eyes so like his own, the fact that she was a good dancer and an even better musician. How many times had Trygve warned him not to ask his father about her? How many times had he been told Hemming's grief was too great, his sorrow too deep? </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Vili felt dizzy and sick. He had wounded his father, and it had nothing to do with a sword. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Hemming stared down at the scout’s body, his mouth tight and thin. Eventually he sighed, and Vili saw that there was a glassiness in his eyes.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“In some ways, yes, she looked like this. But she was beautiful, and her face was peaceful. There is little beauty to be found in this kind of death. Glory? Yes, if you’re lucky. But beauty? No.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Something in those words broke Vili's resolve as if it were made of rotted wood. He broke his gaze away from the dead man, unable to look for any longer. Hemming crossed the space between them and the familiar weight of his hand was felt once more.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Come Vili, our lesson is done for today. I have much to think about, and you have so much more to learn.”</em>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>'At the horse's arse' is a little play on the Scottish idiom 'aywis at the coo's tail', meaning to always be late/the last to the party.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Briggworth</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Two captains. Five - no - six boats. Any other men or ships passing through are inconsequential.”</p><p>Vili meets Basim’s quiet musings with a low, guttural growl that stirs from the very bottom of his chest. After hours upon hours of watching and waiting on this rain-soaked bridge, it has been a long time coming.</p><p>If there is one thing Vili cannot stand, it is boredom. Idleness crushes his spirit like a rockfall in a storm; jagged and hard and unpredictable. It has been that way since he was a boy, full of wild energy and raw imagination. Sitting quietly for hours was nothing at all when he was stalking a wolf larger than the great Fenrir, all yellow eyes and blood-stained teeth. Or perhaps a great stag with antlers so tall they would catch and tangle the stars in their pronged curves. Or angling for a fish with scales like polished silver, so large it could change the tide with a single flick of its mighty tail.</p><p>Those boyhood reveries were pure joy, an escape from the drudgery of life. But there is no spark of enjoyment to be found on this sodden bridge, no yarn of adventure. Dull pain knots across Vili’s shoulders and back - some of it from inactivity, the rest from the still-healing bruises earned in the skirmish outside Portcestre. </p><p>This was not the kind of adventure he hoped to have when he left Snotinghamscire all those moons ago.</p><p>“Why don’t we just attack now?” he mutters. Impatience bleeds through Vili's words with a rough edge as he drums his scarred knuckles against his axe. Eivor and Basim both throw him a sideways glance: one is restrained, the other chiding. </p><p>It is quite fine for them, of course. Eivor has only just arrived from Crawley, escaping the worst of the biting damp and bitter boredom. Basim, on the other hand, seems to be immune to such things. </p><p>“Information is our greatest asset on foreign lands, and it is only bought with patience,” he says in a tone that reminds Vili a shade too much of this father’s disapproving cadence. Vili huffs and jams both hands beneath the folds of his cloak. A hot prickle of heat stings down the length of his frozen fingers. </p><p>“Here is some information - if I stand here any longer, I may die of boredom.” </p><p>Eivor rolls her eyes and turns towards Basim with an emphatic sweep of her shoulders. She seems, at best, uninterested in entertaining Vili’s thunderously bad mood. </p><p>“What have you learned, Basim?”</p><p>“Briggworth swarms with guards, reinforced from the river. Word is that two of Fulke’s finest oversee such matters.” </p><p><em> A meagre payoff for so many hours of idleness</em>, Vili thinks. They have watched the comings and goings at Briggworth since first light - determining any difference in dress, routines and patterns, where these Saxon captains might be hidden amongst the rat’s nest.</p><p>Vili leans over the bridge’s edge and follows Eivor’s gaze. It is quick and shrewd - a fleeting moment of weighing odds and probabilities amidst depths of icy blue. </p><p>“We should kill these leaders and burn their ships. Crippled and put to panic, their men will be in no place to join Fulke at Portcestre.”</p><p>Basim's fingers curl to his beard in thought. “Frightened men look after their own interests. A good plan.”</p><p>Eivor needs no further prompting. She draws her axe and lifts its handle over one of the pulley lines adjoining the bridge to the ground below, declaring with easy confidence: “I will take care of Fulke’s men. Both of you can wait here and cover me should I be spotted.”</p><p>The instruction hits Vili’s ear and sends an angry jolt of indignance careening through him. The simmering irritation he has been nursing sputters and flames, colouring his cheeks and making his voice grow rough and loud. “I’m not staying up here!” he thunders. “I did not travel all this way to watch you steal all the glory from under my nose, Wolf-Kissed.” </p><p>Eivor’s eyes flicker to Vili with the same cunning she had reserved for the guard post. She observes him for a moment, thinking, then spreads a saccharine smile over her lips. </p><p>“If I thought you could do this without causing a racket perhaps I would consider it.” Her voice drips with feigned sweetness, a honey-coating to make the barb slip down easier. “A good Jomsvikingr needs strength, stealth, and an agile mind. Frankly, it’s a wonder you’ve gotten so far on only one of the three.” </p><p>In spite of himself, Vili feels the tittering of a chuckle rumble in his throat. Their friendship is both a blessing and a curse at times like these: Eivor has always been able to draw laughter from him, even when mirth is the furthest thing from his mind.</p><p>But before Vili can shape a sharp retort, Basim pulls them both back to the task at hand. “Perhaps we should act before any more ships arrive,” he says with a calm, if not firm, countenance. </p><p>Eivor nods, lifts her feet, and is gone.</p><p>Without her presence on the bridge, Vili is free once more to seethe in prickling irritation. Basim resumes the pose he has held for most of the morning - a gentle lean on the frame of the pulley, arms crossed neatly over his chest. It is enough to drive Vili mad. How can one man stand for so long in one position? What kind of person is not driven to action after so long on the periphery?</p><p>Vili can make no headway in understanding Basim, not like he had with Rollo or Birna. He is an enigma, a puzzle of a man. The shadowy veil between them is frustrating and intriguing in equal measure. </p><p>With a mighty sigh Vili sits down on the bridge’s cold, wet edge and throws his legs over the side, letting his feet dangle in the damp air. </p><p>“It must be nice, being content to stand by while others do the hard work.” Vili’s tone is temperate enough, but he makes little effort to hide the hot scowl clouding his features. Basim lets out a derisive noise that sits between a snort and a chuckle.</p><p>“It would be a mistake to assume my desire to avoid unnecessary bloodshed is a mark of indifference. I merely understand where I am best utilised.” His accent clings to each word differently, drawing out vowels and consonants in ways that are entirely new to Vili. But what is more strange are the words he says - after all, Vili has seen the man fight, and there are few lookouts who can wield a sword as Basim does. He turns, confused. </p><p>“And how are you best utilised?”</p><p>Basim unfurls his arm to point at something below. “Looking for the things inattentive eyes miss.”</p><p>Vili turns just in time to see one of the captains, a large marauding fellow, catch an arrow in the neck with a soft <em> thunk </em>. It sticks out at an awkward angle, bent in the sliver of space between armour and helmet. Vili’s gaze widens to the immediate surrounding area, but Eivor is invisible to his eye. The captain raises a clawed hand to his neck, shudders, then falls to the ground with his men none the wiser.</p><p>“There is no glory in sneaking around like a mouse in a hay bale,” Vili says bitterly. A half-truth at best. He feels Basim’s watch turn towards him.</p><p>“Really? Then tell me, where would you find glory in this stronghold? You have watched this post as I have. You know that there are men and women amongst Fulke’s guards. Traders and merchants who pass on foot and by river, footmen that fight on the promise of enough silver to see their family through another winter. If you went down there with your axe in hand, how many would die?”</p><p>Vili’s temper edges at the question, but even more so when he recognises that Basim has a point. Briggworth is relatively quiet for now, filled only with scarlet Saxon uniforms, but it is not always so. Many passing people could be hidden in its walls, innocent and unseen, caught in a conflict they scarcely know. Vili has no interest in harming innocents, much less killing them. The axe that hangs from his back suddenly feels hot and heavy; an uncomfortable weight between his shoulders.</p><p>“You believe I am little better than a wolf with the taste of blood on its tongue. Do you think I cannot temper my battle lust?” </p><p>“Not at all,” Basim replies with a shake of his head. “I am simply trying to show you what I see. You have met my apprentice, Hytham, correct?”</p><p>“I have. I understand he has an injury that prevents him from travelling with you.” Vili pulls his legs up from the bridge’s edge and stands, twisting his wrists and hands to ward off the slow ache of cold joints. “It must be quite severe to prevent him from hours of standing around.”</p><p>“It is,” Basim replies flatly. If he hears the bite of sarcasm in Vili’s words, he chooses to ignore it completely. “Hytham is as good a student as I have ever taught. He is good, fair, and utterly devoted to our cause. These qualities also make him stubborn. Unyielding. He grips onto the tenants of our creed so tightly that he cannot separate them from our more material traditions.”</p><p>Basim turns to face Vili head on, dark eyes finding him with a nearly unnerving intensity. Vili is reminded of their first meeting on the battlefield by Portcestre, and the irrefutable sensation of being assessed. </p><p>“Our greatest strengths are more often than not also our greatest weaknesses. When we cannot find space in our minds to imagine things outside of how we see the world, it leaves little room to navigate life’s grey areas.”</p><p>“And this is what you do? Navigate grey areas?” </p><p>Basim doesn’t immediately answer. His eyes twitch, the smallest sign of a mind awhirl with thought, before giving the slightest of shrugs. </p><p>“I work in darkness to serve the light.”</p><p>Gods, will he ever get a clear answer from these men? Vili raises a hand to run his fingers through his hair; a vague attempt to keep his boiling temper lidded. “What does that even mean?!” he hisses.</p><p>Finally, Basim looks away. He resumes his half-leaning position, eyes towards Briggworth, his body as still as marble. Trails of smoke are beginning to snake skywards from beyond the walls, accompanied by a quiet crackling and the smell of burning cloth. </p><p>“It means that there are wars being fought far beyond the scope of what you have known in England," Basim says. "Most men and women are ignorant, too drunk on freedom to feel the threat of it being taken away. You need only look to know that what I say is true.”</p><p>Drawing in a deep breath, Vili pauses to unpick Basim’s spindly threads. Hytham too had mentioned protecting freedom by cutting the rot from this land. But what threat could possibly be so close? The Saxons pushed against the Norse and Danes in great numbers, but were a soft people, easily cowed through force or diplomacy. The Picts had no holding this far south. And what of scope? What threat could reach beyond the seas of England? Could a great danger truly circle the earth like the mighty Jörmungandr, grasping its own tail between its fangs? </p><p>Vili strains his eyes to see something, anything, in Briggworth that holds an answer. But there is no hidden danger, no unfamiliar symbols or messages from the Gods. Disappointment settles in his stomach like a stone. Somewhere below, a guard begins to shout for help.</p><p>“I have no patience for your games, Basim,” Vili says curtly. “Is this another metaphor of morals, or do you speak of a real danger to the clan?”</p><p>Basim chuckles; a small, deep sound from the back of his throat. “It would surprise you how often the two align. But alas, that is a conversation for another time.” He gestures downwards, and Vili sees a cloaked figure emerging from Briggworth’s gates. Men in scarlet are scattering in greater numbers now, their shouts becoming louder as the grey plumes of smoke thicken and melt into the sky. “We will shortly have company.”</p><p>---</p><p>The ride back towards Portcestre is long but infinitely more enjoyable than sitting on that sodden bridge. Vili rides slightly behind Basim and Eivor, who discuss siege plans and tactics in solemn voices ahead. He listens with disengaged interest as Eivor reports what happened with Ubba and Soma at Gildefort and Crawleah. </p><p>Her retelling to Basim is short and to the point, devoid of any particular style or flair. Vili closes his eyes, enjoying the feeling of wind on his face and Eivor’s rich voice. He wonders how these stories would be told around a fire with an audience of eager Norsemen instead of Basim. What colour she would add to the story, how her cadence would lift and dive with the action, the pictures that silver tongue would paint in the minds and hearts of her men. </p><p>It is far more entertaining in Vili’s imaginings than in his current reality. </p><p>“I have received word from camp that Ealdorman Hunwald of Licolnscire and his men have arrived. Birstan travels from Essexe, and Bishop Deorlaf has sent word from Sciropescire that he will soon meet us,” Basim says to Eivor.</p><p>Vili opens his eyes, suddenly quite alert to what is being said. He leans forward to look at Eivor and makes no attempt to mask the thick skepticism in his voice.</p><p>“You secured all these alliances?”</p><p>Eivor turns to look back at Vili, surprised by the interruption. “I did.”</p><p>“Without Sigurd?”</p><p>Her eyebrow arches in exaggerated disdain. “Do my efforts disappoint you?” </p><p>“Of course not, I am merely... surprised. Diplomacy hasn’t always been your greatest strength.”</p><p>The arch in Eivor’s brow raises further: first in confusion, then in warning. When she says his name it drips with soft danger. </p><p>“<em>Vili </em>…” </p><p>The sound of her voice sends a thin tendril of ice up Vili’s spine. He flashes her a broad smile as his mind begins to explode with flashes of colour and the faint echoes of shrieking laughter. Memories, some he has not dwelled on for many winters, all come tumbling to the fore. Eivor groans - she knows what is coming.</p><p>“Well, there was the time where Arne the blacksmith’s boy disagreed with you on who could throw an axe the furthest. You tied him to a tree and threatened to use his head as target practice.”</p><p>“I was proving a point -”</p><p>“Or what about Ødger the oarsman? As I remember, he tried to cheat you out of ten pieces of silver in a game of Orlog. When he wouldn’t give you the coins back you shoved the dice into his mouth and held his jaw until he swallowed. Told him he would have to sift through his own shit before he could play again.”</p><p>“That was settling a score-”</p><p>“And then there was Einar the farmer. Oh, you must remember him! When you could not convince him to sell you his prize stallion, you stole -”</p><p>“Borrowed,” Eivor corrects with the barest hint of a smile.</p><p>“- borrowed a mare from a farm on the other side of Fornburg and led it to the stallion. Damn thing broke through three fences as if they were woven from grass. Old Einar lost far more than his prize horse that day, didn’t he?”</p><p>“Enough.” Eivor’s voice bites, but there is no mistaking the sudden tightness in her cheeks as anything other than a vain attempt to stop herself laughing. “I have grown to wield my tongue just as effectively as my axe, Arse-Stick. I promise you.”</p><p>Vili roars with laughter, and it is enough to break Eivor’s attempt at maintaining her serious expression. Ribs sore, Vili huffs a happy sigh before another thought comes to him. </p><p>“So how many of these allies did you win without getting into a brawl?”</p><p>Eivor falls silent rather quickly. Cheeks turning slightly pink, she turns away and looks at the road ahead.</p><p>“...Eivor?”</p><p>“We should stop for the night. Briggworth has bought us time, and if our allies ride for Portcestre, I want to at least wash the blood from my skin before greeting them,” Eivor says to Basim, ignoring Vili. Her spurning sets off another cackle of laughter so loud that it scatters birds from the trees and makes Vili’s horse titter uneasily beneath him. Basim looks decidedly weary by the time they stop to set up camp.</p><p>---</p><p>Vili does not often find it difficult to fall asleep, but true rest eludes him tonight. He drifts between sleep and mottled consciousness, aware of the tapestry of stars glinting overhead yet not alert enough to sense the passing of time. As the sky fades to indigo and the fire embers burn low, occasional birdsong and rustling drift into his subconscious. They are soft noises. Natural noises. </p><p>But then there is breathing. </p><p>Not his own which rises and falls in his chest with comforting weight; not the subdued snuffling of a fox or rabbit looking for scraps of food. No, this is human. Ragged and quick and wet. Pained.</p><p>Vili frowns. Is this dreamed, or real?</p><p>“No no no, not again… <em> fucking </em> Nornir.”</p><p>Eivor’s whispered rasp rings through his ears like the ripples of a stone thrown into a still lake. He focuses on it, on the breathing - her breathing - and slowly comes to feel the weight of his own limbs pressed against the ground beneath.</p><p>Eivor is little more than a shadow as Vili opens his eyes to dim blue moonlight. She sits to his right with her legs drawn up to her chest, arms wrapped tightly around her knees. She is still, frighteningly so, and Vili can see a sticky sheen of sweat where the light touches her face. He blinks, willing his eyes to adjust to the gloom.</p><p>“Eivor?” he mumbles groggily. Eivor stiffens before pulling her legs in tighter.</p><p>“Go back to sleep, Vili,” she says; a command with the softness of a plea.</p><p>Vili draws himself upwards into a sitting position as he coaxes himself awake. He rubs his face with the back of his hand and grunts. </p><p>“Eivor, What’s wr-”</p><p>She shushes him into silence and jerks her head towards Basim. Basim’s form can just be made out beyond the dying fire, shoulders rising and falling steadily in a slow, restful rhythm. Even in his half-addled state, Vili can piece together what the gesture means - with his face shadowed by night, there is no certain way to tell if Basim is asleep. </p><p>Silent as a stalking cat, Eivor unfurls her body and stands before motioning for Vili to do the same. He is far less graceful, but manages to rise in relative silence. With careful steps he follows her mute lead away from the makeshift camp and towards somewhere more secluded.</p><p>In the darkness it takes Vili a moment to realise where Eivor is leading him. They walk towards the nearest river, where they had collected water and washed the day’s muck off their faces a handful of hours before. Eivor reaches the river’s edge first. She reaches down and splashes her face, holding a sharp intake of breath as the cold water hits her skin. Vili, on the other hand, finds a dry-looking log to sit on. The landscape is flatter here, open and free with fewer trees to obscure vision. A place of solitude, somewhere difficult to hide. </p><p>Intentionally selected, Vili knows. Eivor is many things, but she is not stupid. </p><p>Beyond the practical reasons for being here, there is something magical about the river’s moving water at night. The soft gurgle of its flow, the way moonlight catches its rippled edge and shines like spun threads of silver. <em> Gifts from Freyja and proof of the landvættir</em>, Vili thinks. However, in the small hours, he is more than happy to sit away from its frigid edge.</p><p>Eivor trundles back to meet him with her face still dripping. Instead of sitting next to him, she sinks to the ground with a clenched hand. It releases, and a handful of river stones hit the patchy grass with a quiet pitter-patter. Eivor picks each stone in turn, methodically turning it in her fingers, feeling its weight and shape before laying them out and setting the flattest of them in the middle.</p><p>Vili watches this blue-lit scene with quiet reverence. A cairn for a mouse, still shiny from the water, rises from Eivor’s deft fingers. Vili has no time for stacking stones; never has. But he knows the special significance it holds for her. A way for calming the mind and connecting with her past.</p><p>He leans forward, elbows pushing into his knees. “Are you going to tell me what troubles you, or have you disturbed me from my bed purely for my company?” he asks.</p><p>“Company, mainly,” Eivor replies tartly. “Even without my dreams your snoring is loud enough to rattle the dead from their graves.”</p><p>“Whatever is on your mind must be bothering you to use these small things to stack your cairns.” Vili stretches out a toe, but misjudges the distance and knocks the stacked stones. They fall with a muted clatter, and through the gloom he can feel the sting of Eivor’s withering look. “Oh come on, a river swell would have taken it,” he says defensively. Eivor ignores him and collects up the stones once more with irritated efficiency.</p><p>She stacks again, and in a quiet voice, begins to speak.</p><p>“Ever since we landed in England, I have had a recurring dream; an echo of a vision seen in Norway. I am on a mountain stuck in the eye of a blizzard. I follow a wolf. It leads me upwards, towards the mountain’s summit. On the path I see Odin and the Nornir, hands busy weaving their threads. When I reach the summit I see Sigurd, but he is in pain, maimed and missing an arm. The wolf that led me to him disappears and re-emerges from the fog as wide and tall as the mountain itself. It lunges, and I am jolted awake before its fangs pierce my flesh.” Eivor holds the final stone between her thumb and forefinger and carefully places it atop the stack. The whole structure wobbles, then stills. “Sometimes it comes to me only in flashes. Other times, like tonight, it seems so real I still feel the cold sting of snow on my face when I awake.”</p><p>Vili chews on the inside of his cheek as he listens, lost in thought and the cloying weight of Eivor’s words. He is no seer, but only a fool would mistake this as anything other than a vision from the Gods. </p><p>“Has it been getting worse?”</p><p>Eivor nods, eyes still affixed to her little cairn. “Ever since Sigurd was captured.”</p><p>“He is at the forefront of your waking mind, it is natural he finds you in sleep as well.” The assessment feels moot on the tongue, uncomfortable. “What do you think this vision means?”</p><p>Eivor’s cheeks hollow and she turns to the river. “Valka believes it to be an omen of betrayal,” she says thickly. There is a heaviness in her voice and somehow Vili just <em> knows</em>. He knows that the Gods have told her she will betray Sigurd. For her own ambition, her own self-preservation - it does not matter. The sheer concept is so strange, so maddeningly obscene that it makes Vili snort.</p><p>“Then Valka has been drinking too many of her own brews, just like Svala before her,” he spits. “Mad old woman she was.”</p><p>“It is not like you to dismiss a message from the Gods.”</p><p>“I’m not. It is the interpreter I distrust, not the message.” Vili looks to his hands - hands that have fought Eivor, bruised her, touched her, caressed her, held her. Hands bearing the scars and flesh memory of tears, laughter, pain and tenderness. He knows her as well as he knows these rough palms and callused fingertips. </p><p>“I know your heart, Wolf-Kissed. Betrayal is not in your nature.”</p><p>“But what if Valka is right?” Eivor’s voice trembles, small and vulnerable to the crushing waves of dark thoughts that come spilling over them both. “What if this is all as pointless as trying to hold back the tide?” Without warning she grabs her pile of stones and launches them back towards the river. They crest in the darkness and fall in syncopated beats, each stone swallowed in turn by the silver-black depths.</p><p>Vili has no answer to Eivor’s question. There are no soothing words to be said, no comforts to take in sweet denial. When the Gods speak, it is one’s job to listen and take heed. They both know this: not even Eivor and her mulish ways can rewrite fate. </p><p>
  <em> ‘When we cannot find space in our minds to imagine things outside of how we see the world, it leaves little room to navigate life’s grey areas.’  </em>
</p><p>Basim’s voice comes from the depths of Vili’s subconscious like an echo in the wind. He shakes his head, irritated that anything Basim has said has managed to leech its way into his mind. But the thought remains, obtuse and immovable.</p><p>Morality. Righteousness. Goodness over glory. Working in darkness to serve the light.</p><p>Vili leans forward once more into the moonlight, his head low and close to Eivor’s.</p><p>“Do you think our fight is the right thing to do? Not for you, not for Sigurd or the clan. Just… right.” </p><p>“Yes, I do.” Eivor turns, and her eyes are full of starlight. </p><p>“Then it will not be pointless.”</p><p>Eivor’s mouth quivers, but soon falls still. There is a moment’s pause before she shimmies closer, pulling herself parallel to Vili before resting her temple on the side of his knee. Though he cannot see it, Vili feels her hand skirting over the ground beside his foot, finding ways to be absently busy without her little pile of river stones.</p><p>Eivor sighs, and the sound is resigned and tired. “I haven’t had a decent sleep in weeks,” she admits. “Even if I am not disturbed in the small hours, I never feel rested.”</p><p>The warmth of her head begins to soak through Vili’s clothes and into his skin. He absentmindedly lifts the end of one of her small blonde braids and twirls it between his fingers.</p><p>“When was the last time you slept through the night?”</p><p>Eivor’s hand stops moving and she lifts off him. “Don’t laugh,” she says in a tone that usually means Vili is going to laugh irrespective of the answer. “It was that night, at Odin’s Hovel.”</p><p>For a moment, Vili can no longer hear the river. A flash of bright adrenaline ricochets through his chest and, not for the first time tonight, it seems difficult to fill his chest with air. He tries to laugh it off, but the noise gets lost in his throat. “...Oh,” is all he manages. He drops the braid laced over his knuckles.</p><p>Eivor turns away and scratches the ground with her feet. “I’m sure there are thousands of jokes running through your mind but for once - please - keep them to yourself.”</p><p>“Not even one?” Vili asks, recovering his mirth somewhat as his rabbit-quick heart settles back into a steady rhythm. “About how Odin’s voice itself is silenced by the sheer <em> power </em>of Vili Hemmingson’s -”</p><p>“Stop,” Eivor groans, reaching up to thump him in the bicep. They look at each other seriously, but then she breaks: a snigger, then a giggle, then a laugh. It catches, and the sound of them both is carried over the water and into England’s rolling hills.</p><p>Eventually Eivor quietens and moves once more to replace her head on Vili’s knee. “Will you sleep close to me?” she asks, voice as soft as a gull’s wing.</p><p>“That depends. How close is close?” </p><p>“Vili,” Eivor says with a hint of well-worn exasperation. “Beside me, nothing more. I am just... tired. And willing to try anything to sleep through the small hours without incident.”</p><p>When Vili and Eivor arrive back at camp they move together in practiced silence, both keeping one eye on Basim for signs of him stirring. Vili lays down and sets his gaze towards the intricate muddle of stars overhead while Eivor settles herself beside him. She moves him to her will, kicking his leg out of her way pulling an arm outwards to make a space against his body. Her spine lays flat and long against the length of his torso, hands curled on the skin above the crook of his arm. She rests her head against his shoulder and radiates heat like a blacksmith’s forge.</p><p>Vili listens to her breathing as he counts the stars. It doesn’t take long for the soft sound to slow and deepen. </p><p>He knows that come morning Eivor will be gone before he even opens his eyes. Maybe that’s why he pays such close attention to the sensation of her back pressed up against his body. Maybe.</p><p>He closes his eyes, warm and heavy, and lets sleep take him once more.</p><p> ---</p><p>“She has the look of a lost dog who has found its master. I’ve never seen her smile like that.”</p><p>Rollo’s face wrinkles in deep thought as he and Vili watch Birna from afar. The surrounding camp crackles with life and laughter. Men and women thrum with good natured song and dance in the dying light, the soft clinks of mugs and weapons carrying the minutes quickly. </p><p>A warrior learns in time what settles their hugr on the eve of battle. For some, it is solitude: quiet moments talking with the Gods or themselves, steadying the mind and focusing on what is to come. But for others, like Vili, it is company. The roar of a fire and fine people to share it with, laughter and stories, basking in gleaming moments of happiness that could all be snuffed out tomorrow. Nights like these are like gemstones cut from dull rock: shining, colourful, bright and precious.</p><p>Birna sits with Soma fletching arrows amidst a churn of patchwork tents and mismatched men. Over the sounds of song and loud chatter her crowing laugh is unmistakable. She looks to Soma with wide eyes, full of fire and glee and soft fondness.</p><p>Vili smiles as he watches them. Rollo is not wrong in his assessment - she does look different. Beneath the layers of dust and scarring Birna is younger, brighter. Adoration has a way of softening the features, he supposes. Rollo grunts and shifts, restless, as Vili reaches over to give his friend’s shoulder a conciliatory pat. </p><p>“Leave her to her happiness,” he says. “It is a fine thing to reconnect with those we love, even if temporary.” Rollo harrumphs a response; a noise that tells Vili he knows this truth but does yet not fully understand it.</p><p>“I don’t believe I have ever been so interested in a woman. Well, that’s not true. I have been for a night, two if I’m lucky,” Rollo muses. The knot of his brow sinks further. There is a deeper root in his words, a thought felt but not articulated. Vili can almost hear the words in Rollo’s distinctly self-assured, clever voice: <em> What must that be like? </em></p><p>But then he looks to Vili, eyes filled with a sudden piqued interest. </p><p>“You’re not married.”</p><p>Vili eyes Rollo warily, uncomfortable and uncertain of why it is he and not Birna that is suddenly the focus of Rollo’s attention. </p><p>“Well observed.”</p><p>“Were you ever married?”</p><p>“No.” </p><p>Vili’s answer is short and cuts the rhythm of their conversation stone dead. Rollo reaches for his ale cup to fill the silence, eyes quickly swivelling back to Birna. Vili sighs; it is sometimes difficult to remember Rollo has not yet seen his twentieth winter. He is a young man so worldly in some ways, and entirely inexperienced in others.</p><p>“I lost my mother when I was a babe. It caused my father a great deal of pain, and while he could have promised me to some nobleman’s daughter, I believe he wanted to spare me the suffering of losing one you love. I did consider it, though. A girl named Astrid back in Norway,” Vili offers. There is little reason to shun candour on nights like this where ruby-orange tones paint the sky; a beautiful precursor to the promise of bloodstained soil tomorrow. </p><p>“Huh,” Rollo responds in mild surprise. He sits on the information for a moment before asking with all the delicacy of a rutting elk: “what did she look like?”</p><p>Vili leans back and looks upwards into the great expanse. How to describe her? For all the years he had spent in Norway lusting after Astrid and imagining an unlikely life together, Vili must admit that the winters since their parting have dulled his memory. She exists more as an imprint now; a ghosting memory of touch and taste and deep, deep want. There are still flashes, of course. The freckles scattered across her cheeks and shoulders. The soft curl of her hair, the way it shone like burnt sunlight in autumn. Eyes the colour of barley. And her soft mouth. He knew that well. </p><p>But those gentle things are not what Rollo seeks. </p><p>“She was very beautiful. Long red hair, golden eyes, and had a backside you could balance a cup of mead on,” Vili grins. </p><p>“A prize indeed!” Rollo brays with merry laughter. “What happened?”</p><p>“My father sailed for England, and she was already promised to another. There was security and wealth for her in the Fjords, and peace for her clan. It wouldn’t have made sense for her to join me here.”</p><p>Vili still remembers the day when Astrid had told him, with tears and snot and trembling hands, that she would not sail with him to England. Her duty was to her clan, she had said. Any affection she had for him could not take the place of her love for her people.</p><p>He remembers the cold hammering of his heart and the focus it took to keep his stone-face. He remembers turning away and leaving her in the snow drifts to drown his sorrows in the mead hall. That was the last time he saw her: weeping and pained and sorry.</p><p>A thread of hope stretched to the point of snapping. What a lovesick fool he had been then.</p><p>“I don’t think sense has a role to play in matters of the heart,” Rollo says with a thoughtful tone that almost surprises Vili in its maturity. Until, of course, he opens his mouth again: “If it did, I wouldn’t so often find myself in the beds of married women. And besides, what would you have done if she had?” </p><p>He sweeps an arm to gesture at the men and women around them. “Would you swap this for a farm? Raise pigs and instead of razing monasteries? Wield an ard before your axe?” Rollo's arm drops, and this time it is his hand that lands on Vili’s shoulder. “A sad existence for one with a warrior’s spirit, I think. A waste of your saga.”</p><p>In that moment, Vili sees in Rollo what many others have done before. The stain of leadership is not something one grows into without great difficulty - Vili knows this from experience. But there are a few, a lucky few, who are born with that indelible mark. Rollo is one of them. </p><p>A beat of silence passes between them before Rollo nods, huffs, and stands. He pushes his weight side to side, ambling his legs while he runs both broad hands over his braids. “Good luck to you and Birna for the battle ahead, my friend,” he says to Vili and, seeing at Vili’s bewildered expression, throws him a smirk.</p><p>“What, you expected me to twiddle my thumbs here, waiting for the push?” he asks with mock incredulity. “Deorlaf’s men ride tonight to meet the Saxon army marching from Wincestre. I intend to be amongst those leading the charge. If you think my sea legs are impressive, just wait until you hear tales of my prowess on horseback.”</p><p>The arrogance gives Vili cause to chuckle. Destined for leadership or not, the Nornir do not look kindly on those who are taken by bloodlust so easily. But there is little point in telling Rollo this - he will not listen. Vili would not have either in his younger years.</p><p>Instead he juts a foot out, catching Rollo’s bobbing ankle and sending him into a graceless stumble. “Will you be giving your enemies haircuts with your blade?” Vili asks innocently. “With those short arms, I wouldn’t expect you to reach anything else on the back of a horse.”</p><p>“Funny,” Rollo snaps. “Just wait. Next time we meet, the longhouse will swell with stories of my deeds.”</p><p>Vili raises his drink in a parting gesture. “I look forward to it, assuming you will be sober enough to tell them to the end.”</p><p>“The best tales are the ones with the ending still unwritten,” Rollo laughs. “That way you must listen to me three times over to hear the conclusion!”</p><p>---</p><p>Eivor appears in camp as the last of the day's warm light fades from the sky. The night sits on a familiar tipping edge; caught between a sweeping hush of sleep, or the loud cacophony of drunk song and drunker fighting. For his part, Vili prefers the former. He may have won battles in the past with a head like a bear bit, but he will take a clear mind over that fog any day.</p><p>Eivor kneels beside him quietly, mouth curled in a small smile as she observes the folk talk and share stories around them. “Where are the rest of my crew?” she asks curiously.</p><p>“Here, there, and everywhere.” Vili shakes a hand towards the other side of camp, where the fire is substantially bigger and song swells over the tents. “Tonight Birna takes the company of Soma Jarlskona. Rollo has decided to ride with Bishop Deorlaf, such is his eagerness to shed Saxon blood.”</p><p>Eivor chuckles. “If I had more men with his battle lust perhaps Sigurd would already be home.”</p><p>“Or there would be far more grave mounds in Ravensthorpe.” Vili points out, and Eivor gives an acknowledging nod in response. She stretches, and Vili notices that there is no familiar glint of metal. Her bracers and that strange wrist blade of hers remain tightly bound to her arms, but her chest plate is gone, allowing her tunic to hang comfortable and loose. It makes her seem smaller. More delicate, though Vili knows that is a ridiculous term to use when describing a woman like Eivor. He looks to the lingering flames, duly ignoring that small part of his mind which traces the shape of her bicep to her sleeve and wills his imagination to outline the rest of her.</p><p>“What brings you to this fire?” he asks, forcing his voice to be light.</p><p>Eivor looks at him with a perplexed expression. “You, of course. I am tired,” she says as if this is the most obvious thing in the world. Vili’s thoughts goes blank before the meaning clicks. </p><p>“Oh. I, uh, I thought last night was -” He stumbles over his words, slack-jawed and scrambling to connect his mouth to his mind. </p><p>“A one off?” Eivor finishes with mild bemusement. “Most people require sleep on a nightly basis, or so I am told.” She cocks her head, watching him with a look balanced between curiosity and expectation. “I will not force your hand, my friend.”</p><p>Vili feels the back of his neck grow hot against the cooling night air, but not out of embarrassment. Last night had stirred something in him, something he scarcely wants to think about, let alone admit.</p><p>The desire to be close to her, to feel her pressed against him, to experience the touch of her skin on his, has dominated most of his waking thoughts today. It is a compulsion, a pandering, a selfish desire that thrums in the deepest parts of him. But by the Gods, just the thought of another night with her against him sets him alight. </p><p>“Oh shut up,” he growls. “You know I will give my help willingly."</p><p>They lie together that night in a familiar curl; Eivor’s back pressed to Vili’s chest, her head on his shoulder. Under the threadbare canvas there are no stars to count, but the chants and fireside songs of those still drinking are enough to keep Vili’s mind engaged as he listens to Eivor’s breathing. But tonight it does not settle into the soft lulls of sleep. She remains stiff and fidgety, breath shallow.</p><p>After a while, he turns his head towards her. His nose touches her hair and is filled with the increasingly familiar scent of honey and woodsmoke.</p><p>“This time tomorrow, Fulke will be dead and Sigurd will be returned to us. Your dreams will fade. I promise.” Vili mutters softly. </p><p>Eivor does not reply, but quietly takes his hand and draws it to her waist. Vili’s fingers reflexively skirt across her tunic before curling inwards, pulling her flush against him. His need is irrepressible, the motion only natural. He feels Eivor’s chest pitch before exhaling in a long, soft sigh. </p><p>“I hope you are right, Arse-Stick.”</p><p>---</p><p>
  <em> There are moments in life that split your understanding of time between ‘what is’ and ‘what was’. Events that fundamentally change you, that cast off your old self in favour of the new, never to be found again. Vili often heard his father speak of such moments and never quite understood what he meant. But now, walking towards King Styrbjorn’s longhouse, Vili could not help but notice the imperceptible shift in the air around him. The buildings that were so familiar to him no longer held the same warm glow; there was no easy spark of happiness bouncing in his gut. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> It had been weeks since Vili had seen Eivor - the longest they had gone without being in each other's company since they met on that frozen night in Stavanger. Weeks since she had run from the room, from Vili and Hemming, and from the dead body so unceremoniously dumped in front of them. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> A chill ran down the length of Vili’s back that has nothing to do with the biting cold. Yes, a change had happened then. One that neither of them could return from. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> After some searching, Vili found Eivor tucked away at the far end of the longhouse, sitting cross-legged amongst a pile of discarded furs and cloaks. Her hair had been sprung free of its usual short braids, strands of blonde kinking and curling in wild and haphazard directions. Vili watched quietly as Eivor worked her hands over the mess, trying to smooth and segment the unruly locks. Her aggravated sigh suggested that it was not going well. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Can I help?” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> The sound of Vili’s voice must have taken Eivor by surprise as she jumped like a fire had been lit beneath her, neck cracking as she snapped around to glare at the intrusion. Her eyes were bloodshot and ringed with dark shades of purple. But her fury only lasted a moment, and was soon extinguished as she realised who it was that disturbed her peace. She sighed again, this time a tired sound. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “If you must.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Vili slid down behind Eivor, pushing his legs out at either side of her crouched body. The height difference between them was becoming more ungainly with every passing winter, though Vili could still just about manage to make room for his limbs in the small, hidden spaces she liked to frequent. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Vili’s fingers set to work with nimble speed, separating and twisting Eivor’s hair at the scalp. This wasn’t the first time he had braided her hair for her - Eivor was never particularly good at keeping the knots tight and straight, especially at the back. The constant effort had convinced Vili some time ago that he would always keep his hair short.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> As he braided, Vili thought of what to say. Being close to her felt as it always had done - natural, easy - but talking about the last time they had been together just felt awkward. It was an unusual feeling, and one that Vili was keen to dispel.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “You haven’t visited in a long time. My father was worried,” he settled on. Mentioning that he was worried too seemed silly and strange. Beneath his hands Eivor twitched and bowed her head.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “I’m sorry, Vili,” she mumbled. “I haven’t been in the mood for training.” Judging by her appearance, it was not just her mood. Eivor looked as though she hadn’t slept a wink since that day with Hemming Jarl. Vili tugged the end of her hair and grinned when she yelped, pain momentarily dragging her out of her sadness.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “It’s ok. I’m better than you anyway,” he bragged with the easy bravado of a boy his age. Then Vili’s voice softened and turned quiet, his hands more gentle as they passed through her hair. “What happened that day was scary. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Eivor’s back tensed from neck to hip, curling in on itself with unseen weight. She nodded. “I cannot escape his face. It wakes me from my dreams. His, my parents, other faces I don’t remember but I know I have seen.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Vili’s hands paused as Eivor whispered the admission. His heart ached for his friend. After all, they both knew the intimacy of loss. Vili understood the desperate craving for a touch you cannot feel, the need to go without comfort when the parent you seek is not there to give it. But he also knew it was a different thing entirely to lose those you knew. Vili loved his mother as he loved stories; something to be carried and moulded to his liking. He took the pieces of her he treasured the most and committed them to memory, filling in the pieces that were missing with imagined delights. Eivor had to live with the good and the bad. Memories are not so easily changed, as his father would say. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Vili hadn’t spoken about that day with anyone. Simply thinking about it evoked the smell of spilled guts in his nose and the glassy look of the dead man’s eyes. But now, sitting with Eivor curled between his knees, it didn’t feel so frightening. She too had seen the man, had heard the weight of his body and gazed upon the slick wax of his skin. He wasn’t alone, and neither was she. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “When a deer is hunted, I see what the beast will become. Meat, furs, antlers to be carved into knives and flutes and other useful things. But that man… I only saw him. It was as if he could sit up at any moment and attack me,” Vili confessed. He pulled the ends of Eivor’s hair together and knotted them in place before running his fingers from her forehead to the nape of her neck to check his arrow-straight handiwork. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “We will end up like that one day,” Eivor muttered bitterly.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Vili snorted and tugged at her now-neat hair once more. “We have greater fates than Kjotve’s dogs,” he told her with more conviction than he felt. Eivor offered a small nod in reply. She seemed calmer now, less on edge. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Will you come back with me?” Vili asked in a tone that almost sounded like an afterthought, though it's asking was the whole reason Vili had come looking for her. “My father would like to see you well. You can stay with us, if you like.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> For a moment Eivor was still, and Vili thought with a quick dread that he would be rebuffed - that the scarring experience she had had would be too much to return; that this great sea-change would not only be in him, but between them. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> He needn’t have worried. Without a word Eivor sprung to her toes, swivelled, and threw her arms around Vili’s neck with ferocious weight. It was all he could do to tense his muscles and avoid being thrown backwards. Feeling her warmth and steady pulse next to his cheek, Vili wrapped an arm around her shoulders and hugged her back. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> There are some moments in life that change us, yes. But interspersed with those moments are others more delicate and gentle. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> The moments between two young friends. The moments of small comforts in hidden corners, the warmth of honest conversation and selfless help. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> The moments that bring us back to who we truly are. </em>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Jörmungandr is a giant sea serpent from Norse mythology who encircles the earth and grasps its own tail. When it releases its tail, Ragnarök will begin.</p><p>Landvættir are spirits of the land who promote beauty and fertility in the area they inhabit.</p><p>An ard is a light plough used by the Norse farmers to cut furrows into the ground.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Portcestre</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The war band approaches the walls of Portcestre at first light.</p><p>Morning is not the optimal time to initiate a siege. Conventional wisdom dictates that they should advance at night, when Fulke’s forces will be caught off guard and unprepared. But Vili knows that winning is not always the sole objective of such engagements. As Eivor shouts towards the battlements for Fulke, he understands what she intends for the Saxon witch to see - the face of her death, backed by a sea of Norsemen. The span of Eivor’s power growing ever wider across Mercia and beyond. Hopelessness. Inevitability.</p><p>These are the moments usually conjured in the imaginations of skalds eager to give their songs a little more poetic flair. Eivor gifts such scenes plainly, without need for additional embellishment. </p><p>Fulke is less impressive than Vili imagined, but the madness in her eyes runs as deep and black as the well of Hvergelmir. The silver cross of Christ sits on her chest like a target as she mocks and goads Eivor, who gives her one final chance to face her alone and spare her men from slaughter. But the false Christian will not yield, and the hum of tension in the air quickly becomes a bitter prologue to the groans and screams soon to fill it.</p><p>“That was a gracious offer,” Ubba remarks as he, Vili and Soma fall in line behind Eivor on return to the camp. “I cannot say I would extend Fulke the same kindness to spare her forces if it had been my brother.”</p><p>“If Ivarr was taken there would have been no need,” Vili replies soberly. “The walls of Portcestre would have ran red before Birstan’s ram had been rolled to the bottom of the hill.”</p><p>“Aye, there is truth in that,” Ubba chuckles half-heartedly.</p><p>Ivarr’s fate was one of many fireside tales that sat heavily in Vili’s heart last night. The end was not surprising (Ivarr’s fire burned white hot in life when most men’s glowed a lazy orange; it seemed only natural his would burn out quickly,) but the means was. Vili steals a glance at Eivor ahead. She had, after all, been his friend too. </p><p>“Let us steer our minds away from thoughts of those who have ridden with the Valkyries and focus on avoiding the same fate today.” Soma says dispassionately, though her eyes rise up towards Ubba with a flicker of sympathy. “Let Ivarr be a tool to you, not a hindrance.”</p><p>They are an odd pair. Ubba, now unbridled from the distraction of Ivarr’s hot madness. Soma, a sensible foil that tames even Birna’s impulses. Leaders both, and Vili is thankful to fight alongside them.</p><p>---</p><p>Eivor’s speech before the first push roars over the English chill like dragon’s breath, setting the low-lying mist aflame with crackling energy. The prose is typically Eivor - her poet’s heart bleeds through her words and metaphors, evoking the grandness of a thing that, for many, will amount little more than a muddy grave today. But Gods, does she look magnificent doing it.</p><p>Poised, strong, resolute. She is all the things this army looks to her for, and more. </p><p>And yet, there is something else there too. A wired set to her jaw, a twitching of her eyes. It is slight, almost imperceptible to all but Vili. He has seen the minute signs of a blistering rage barely contained before, a grudge that turns molten in the fires of her gut.</p><p>Eivor carried the same hatred for another man once. Kjotve the Cruel. A blood feud that drove her into danger, stripped her of her family, flayed her innocence, and led her down the path of violence and brutality that forged her into the drengr of so many skald-songs. </p><p>It took Eivor seventeen winters to rid herself of Kjotve’s poisonous grip on her life. For her sake, Vili hopes Fulke’s is ended today. </p><p>“Pick your jaw up off the ground before she sees, will you?”</p><p>Birna idles up between Vili and Soma, a half-eaten apple in hand, taking great big bites in between little comments and moments of laughter. Even Soma’s serious face cracks a smile as Vili blinks dumbly before diverting his eyes.</p><p>“I don’t know what you mean.” The sound of Vili's quickening pulse, which irritatingly has nothing to do with the upcoming fight, fills his ears.</p><p>“Of course not,” Birna says jovially. She throws apple core over her shoulder with a carefree toss before taking her sword in hand. “You pretend to not understand, and I will pretend to not have eyes.”</p><p>Before Vili can wrap his head around a response a roar begins to echo through the crowd, signalling the end of Eivor’s speech. She takes one final look towards the walls of Portcestre, says something into the wind, and begins to walk towards them. Vili can see Birna snapping her jaw open and closed like a puppet out the corner of his eye before she turns to Soma and whispers into her former Jarlskona’s ear, giggling like a child.</p><p>“How was that?” Eivor asks Vili as the crowd begins to move and split into battalions. The Lincolnscire archers pass with longbows in hand, each man eyeing Eivor nervously in turn as they walk by her. Vili suppresses a chuckle as he sees their bowstrings tremble.</p><p>“It had the intended effect, though I see some pale faces amongst the Saxons of our army. I think Ealdorman Hunwald and his men might have turned the colour of seafoam as you spoke of ravens feasting on Saxon bodies.”</p><p>“Ah,” Eivor says with a surprisingly worried lip, obviously forgetting the patchwork nature of her army. “I am not as versed as you in leading Saxon alongside Norse, Arse-Stick. Do you think it will have scared them?”</p><p>“Absolutely,” Vili grins, “but only into fighting all the more ferociously. I can think of no Saxon who will dare abandon you after that war cry.”</p><p>There is a moment of relief on Eivor’s face, a flicker of brightness before the grave mask once again falls. “Good,” she says as she turns to face Portcestre’s stony walls. “We will need all of their might to return Sigurd to where he belongs.”</p><p>---</p><p>Inside Portcestre, everything descends into chaos. The incessant rain of arrows was challenging enough to weather as they breached the gates, but handling the bloody scramble of combat and while watching for the dull glint of Saxon crossbows from the walls is near impossible. Everything around Vili smells of mud and guts, iron and sweat; a slick precursor to the stinking slip of rot that will surely follow.</p><p>Vili drags his axe blade out of another Saxon and catches a familiar pair of round eyes in the chaos. Birna fights beside him with sword and shield, all laughter gone from her shouts as she cleaves down soldier after soldier. </p><p>Another enemy swings for Vili from his right. He catches the attacking blade against the handle of his axe and feels the trembling force of the blow travel through his forearms. He knocks the Saxon aside and pushes him backwards with a forceful boot to the chest. </p><p>“Vili!” Birna pants behind him. “I can’t find Rollo.”</p><p>The Saxon lands on his back and begins to fumble for his weapon, pushing away from Vili through the mud like a sturgeon caught on the riverbank. “He rode out to meet the reinforcing Saxon army last night,” Vili shouts back. </p><p>There is a marked thunk of metal on wood, a scream, and in his peripheral Vili sees another Saxon come flying past. The still-warm body lands in a crushed heap. Birna follows, nostrils flared. “He <em>what</em>?!” she screeches. “He left without telling me or saying goodbye?!”</p><p>Birna rounds on Vili’s target, knuckles blanched white. The Saxon cowers as she sheathes her blade and grips the edge of her shield with both hands. Vili looks away - this isn’t going to be pretty. </p><p>“That little bacraut, I will -”</p><p>
  <em>Thud.</em>
</p><p>“- kill him -”</p><p>
  <em>Crack.</em>
</p><p>“- myself -”</p><p>
  <em>Groan.</em>
</p><p>“- if he survives the day!”</p><p>There is little life left in the man as Birna lifts the edge of her shield, and even fewer discernible facial features. Blood gushes upwards in pathetic spurts, meeting the bits of skin and flesh that drop from the shield’s metalwork. Birna throws the man a look of disgust before drawing her blade to snuff out what’s left of his light.</p><p>Vili silently hopes that Rollo does not see the need to rejoin the fight here when he is done cutting down the Wincestre forces. Or, at the very least, has the sense to give Birna a wide berth while her blood is still up. </p><p>---</p><p>The fight up to Portcestre’s keep is long and arduous, and has Vili gasping like a workhorse by the time they can press up the rickety stars without more Saxons barrelling down at them. Eivor leads their charge, fleet of foot but no less worn, while Basim covers their flank. They are all silently thankful when the top of the keep bears no nasty surprises of hidden Saxon forces to meet them.</p><p>The room reeks of human suffering. Blood, putrid flesh and rotting hay decorate the sparse floorboards, and the acrid smell is sharp in Vili’s nose as they search for Sigurd. But he is nowhere to be found. Vili inspects the chair in the middle of the room - a horrifying contraption designed with the sole purpose of immobilising - and nearly misses Eivor stiffening as she walks outside to the platform edge, eyes trained on the fighting below.</p><p>She raises a jerky hand towards another building in the fortress, eyes wild. “The church! Fulke must have taken him there. Come on!” </p><p>She doesn’t even wind up for the jump. As Vili turns all he sees is the flat of Eivor’s boots and the edge of her cloak as she dives headfirst off the keep. A strangled noise catches in his throat as his body jerks towards where she was only seconds ago. Beside him, Basim makes strides towards the open air and follows suit. </p><p>For a moment Vili stands stupidly, shocked and alone against the groundswell of battle cries. </p><p>
  <em>Did they really just…?</em>
</p><p>He drags his numb feet to the keep’s edge, heart hammering against his ribs, and almost chokes with relief when he sees Eivor and Basim, dirty and bloodied but perfectly alive, scaling down the scaffolds and towards Portcestre’s church.</p><p>“Shit,” Vili says into the sky, running a hand through his beard in shocked disbelief. He has seen many things in battle before, but that was new.</p><p>Somewhere high above Synin cries a noise that sounds like cackling laughter. Vili is brave, but even he has limits. He will take the stairs.</p><p>---</p><p>By the time Vili enters the churchyard, Fulke is as good as dead. </p><p>The fight in itself is almost grotesque, a sad caricature of Christ’s final walk on his hallowed grounds. The huge wooden cross on Fulke’s shoulder is as much a hindrance as it is a weapon. As Eivor circles the woman it is clear that they have already come to blows - both bear cuts and bruises, though it is Fulke who fares considerably worse.</p><p>Fulke swings her wooden cross, and buries deep furrows into the soft mud with its edge. Eivor sidesteps with ease and brings her axe to Fulke’s back. The wet thump of metal as it hits flesh is swallowed by the din of Fulke screams and incoherent babbling between haggard breaths. </p><p>Immorality. Wounding flesh. Brother. Animals. Power. A god trapped in a prison of bones.</p><p>Eivor lunges and thrusts her wrist upwards. The hidden blade pierces cloth and buries itself between Fulke’s ribs - a killing blow. The witch gasps, eyes bulging, before a steady stream of blood begins to pour from her mouth and down her chin. Whatever those busy lips say is lost to the shouts and cheers of the Norse that surround them. The cross falls, then the woman. </p><p>Vili breathes heavily through his nose, relieved at the sight. It is over. </p><p>But Eivor doesn’t move.</p><p>The crowds are so full of victory’s song that they do not see what Vili sees. A tension. A warning. A boiling, furious anger that is rising, not falling.</p><p>Eivor drops her axe and bends over to lift Fulke by the hair. Her fist connects with the woman’s face with a sickening crack, and in a second she is bent over the body, fist working like a battering ram against Fulke’s slack features.</p><p>The crowd’s cheers die in their throats. Some of the more bloodthirsty shout curses by ways of encouragement. Most just look away. Fulke’s head jolts and snaps as if held to her neck by a thread. </p><p>“Burn in your Hell!” Eivor screams as the face becomes less and less human. Tears streak the blood and soil staining Eivor’s cheeks. She can’t stop. Won’t stop.</p><p>Vili is the only one to break the awful circle that contains Eivor’s fury. He closes the space between them and grabs her elbow as it jerks back for another swing, broad hand pulling her away from Fulke’s mangled body. Eivor thrashes and roars, growling like a wildcat against Vili. The slick of blood on her hands does not stop her from trying to grip his fingers and force them backwards to pry herself free. </p><p>“No, no! Get off of me! I will kill her,” Eivor howls through bared teeth. Vili responds by locking his arm over her chest and pulling her feet off the ground. It is messy and undignified, but effective at keeping her contained. </p><p>“She’s dead, Eivor! You have your revenge,” Vili shouts, ignoring the wide eyes of those who cannot look away. Eivor replies with wild kicks and another rasped scream.</p><p>They struggle like that for a few minutes more: Vili restraining Eivor, Eivor doing anything short of attacking Vili to get free. Her anger refuses to die; if anything, it intensifies. </p><p>He can’t hold her like this forever.</p><p>Finally, Vili loosens his grip and Eivor springs free. Her chest heaves with exertion, eyes trained on Fulke’s body like a moth drawn to flame. Until Vili grabs her again - not across the body, but by the face.</p><p>In an instant, the crowd around them seem to fade away. Vili stares at Eivor, hands strong against her cheeks, forcing her chin upwards to meet his gaze. The ice blue shudders and flickers as she tries to look away - full of savage madness, desperation, loss.</p><p>It all dances in her eyes like the skies of Norway, alight with the glimmer of Valkyrie’s shields and the Bifröst. She is so, so far away. The person in his hands is not the Eivor he knows.</p><p>“Stop this. Come back to me," Vili murmurs. His thumbs press into the tear tracks carving grooves through the wet muck on her skin. Eivor shudders, closes her eyes, and looks at him once more.</p><p>She returns. Angry. Hurt. Afraid. But it’s her.</p><p>And with her, the world begins to fall back into place. The crowd dissipates as Basim emerges with Sigurd from the church. Sigurd's appearance shocks Vili - he is so much older than he remembers him to be, in no small part thanks to his recent torments. The stump of his arm carries the same stink as the chair in the keep, and Vili’s stomach sours at the thought of what must have happened before the siege began.</p><p>There are so many thoughts, so many questions, but the Gods give precious little time to answer any of them. Ubba and Soma arrive with news of the next Saxon wave, and they all must be ready to fight once more.</p><p>---</p><p>When the battle is finally over, Vili is spent. He sits atop one of Portcestre’s broken walls, sweat dripping from his beard and stinging his eyes as he watches the last of the Wincestre army scatter and retreat. His axe is slick and stone-heavy as it lays over his thighs. Small wisps of heat from the bloodied blade catch the afternoon light like hot breath in cold air. </p><p>Their victory is not rung in all at once. Cheers come in sporadic waves; broken but building, little cries that meld in the air and begin to sing along to the bellow of horns. It sounds like glory, and the coming celebration of night.</p><p>From where he sits, Vili can see the full length of the narrow channel where Eivor’s men had managed to pin the Saxon army. Some who don the Raven Clan blue have already begun to clear the bridge of Saxon dead by rolling their bodies over the bridge’s edge. Others, who had chased the last of the enemy to the end, trundle back from beyond the stone entryway with wide smiles and bloody blades. </p><p>One of them carries a hammer. He stands out amongst the rest. </p><p>Rollo strides into Portcestre baring his teeth, grin wide and savage at the same time. He is drenched in his day’s work but looks no less happy for it. The horse he left on is nowhere to be found. Beside Vili, Birna tenses.</p><p>“Birna! Vili!” He crows, throwing his arms open in a swaggering flourish. “What stories I have to tell you -”</p><p>Birna is in front of Rollo in three long strides. She tosses an axe in the air, catches it by the blade’s butt, and in one short swipe slams the knob of the handle into Rollo’s temple. Its force sends Rollo reeling backwards, stringing a long line of curses as Birna advances. </p><p>“Shit! What was that for?” he cries, rubbing the spot where the axe connected. </p><p>“What was that for?” Birna rights her grip on the axe and strikes Rollo’s chest with the heel of her free hand, pushing him once again. “You think you can just leave on the eve of battle and not think to tell me? Is there anything larger than a walnut between your ears?! Did you and that little thumbcock of yours think you would win your glory <em>alone</em>?!”</p><p>For every screeched word, Birna shunts Rollo back farther and farther until he is almost tipped over the edge of the bridge. He yells and pleads, stuttering apologies and calling her sister, shouting for Vili and Eivor to “fucking do something!”, but the rings of laughter amongst the Raven Clan have sealed his fate. Vili watches in quiet amusement as Birna holds Rollo by the scruff of his emerald tunic over the precipice. He notices only in passing that Eivor’s eyes do not follow the antics of two of her strongest drengrs, but him. </p><p>---</p><p>Portcestre’s walls cannot be held forever, but for tonight, the Raven Clan’s banner hangs high from its keep. </p><p>Vili finds Eivor atop the tower, sitting motionlessly as the clan and its allies work themselves into a joyous fervour below. It is normal for her to be a step away from such activities, but strange to find her so still. As Vili approaches he sees that Eivor’s axe lies in her hands, veined with dried blood and dirt from the day’s fighting. The bottles she keeps to clean it are neatly lined up by her thigh but remain untouched. Vili calls her name to no answer. As he sits, he sees that Eivor’s gaze is not on her weapon, nor on the bright glow of the fire beneath their feet. Instead she looks straight ahead into the inky depth of night, seeing and unseeing all at once, in a different place from him entirely. </p><p>Without word, Vili pries the weapon out of Eivor’s bloodied and swollen hands. He takes a neatly folded cloth, decants the contents of a small bottle into it, and begins to clean.</p><p>As his fingers work over the blade, he hums tunes from their childhood. Songs Trygve taught them at the hearth, ones they made up together, others Eivor composed herself for the express intention of insulting him. Fragments here and there, sown together in a jumbled medley that reverberates in his chest. </p><p>And slowly, oh so slowly, Eivor begins to join in.</p><p>By the time Eivor’s blade is clean she has returned from the edges of her mind, eyes focused and alert once more. Vili hands over the axe with a grunt; it gleams as brightly as the day it left Gunnar’s forge.</p><p>“This is the second time today you have led me back to the present when my mind wanders,” Eivor says, nodding her head in thanks as she inspects Vili’s handiwork. He pauses, expecting some smart remark about the quality of the job, but none arrives. </p><p>“In the north, you had my back when I was blinded by rage,” Vili replies with a tiny shrug of his shoulders. “I ran into that abandoned mine with nothing but bloodletting in my mind. I would have ran headfirst into a warren of a thousand angry bandits if it meant curing my fury for a night. Today I am simply returning the favour.”</p><p>Eivor turns her axe methodically in her hands, and Vili wonders if she too is thinking back to that strange night. The fight, the chase, the aftermath. “Your description is not too dissimilar from what actually happened, you know,” she finally says with a familiar cocksure grin.</p><p>“Oh come now,” Vili snorts with a dismissive flick of his hand. “I could have handled that on my own. You merely sped the process along.”</p><p>“You were surrounded by five bandits when I found you.”</p><p>“And fighting them all excellently.”</p><p>“<em>Five</em>, Vili.”</p><p>They laugh at the memory before falling quiet, both listening to the songswell that carries the night beneath them. It goes unspoken, but Vili knows they both think of the same things in the relative stillness. Fulke. Sigurd. His missing arm. Eivor’s dreams. </p><p>Eventually Vili leans back and lifts his chin towards the stars. A question that has bothered him all night hums on his lips, and now seems as a good a time as any to ask it.</p><p>“When Fulke was dead and Sigurd safe, you stayed with us to fight the last of the Saxons instead of taking passage with your brother. Why is that?”</p><p>Vili sees the whites of Eivor’s eyes as she glances at him. “It is my place to lead the Raven Clan’s war band. Basim will ensure Sigurd’s safety,” she says in a steady, if not muted, tone. Unconvincing at best. Vili presses again.</p><p>“And yet I remained. As did Ubba, Soma, Birna, and the rest of this rich tapestry of allies you have woven in England. Some of the best fighters on this soil. More than a match for a half-worn army.”</p><p>With a slightly pained groan, Eivor turns her torso to face Vili more directly. She considers him a moment, scanning his face for something he doesn’t quite know, before a sigh falls from her. She flexes her angry-looking knuckles until the tips turn white.</p><p>“Do not mistake me, my heart soars to know I have Sigurd back. But… I’m scared.” The confession is quiet on her lips, and for a brief moment Vili sees who Eivor once was before all of this - the child he had known, loved as good as any friend, but was so broken. Of course she was scared. He would be too.</p><p>“You should focus on bringing him home,” Vili says softly. “And if you stray when doing so, I will be here to bring you back.” </p><p>He wants to touch her hand, cover it with his as she did to him in the woods outside Portcestre. But to do so would cause more damage to her bruised fists, so he keeps still. Eivor sits in silence, considering Vili’s words with long looks and deep thought. </p><p>“And what of Vili Hemmingson? Who finds you when you cannot find your way home?”</p><p>An answer falls into Vili’s mouth and hits the back of his teeth before his tired mind can order the thoughts into a coherent sentence. <em>I am home. I cannot be lost here. Not with you.</em></p><p>But something big and powerful stops these things passing his lips. His own fear of change, of somehow altering this decades-old thread of friendship that entangles their lives. Vili can handle his wandering mind and base desires. He could not handle being cast adrift.</p><p>It was a flickering flame. He merely feels it smoke.</p><p>He wonders what it might be like to lean in here and kiss her.</p><p>
  <em>No.</em>
</p><p>“A roamer has no home to be lost from,” Vili eventually rasps, banishing whatever momentary madness skirts around the edges of his head. Eivor blinks and something akin to a scowl crosses the line of her mouth. Vili wonders if he is destined for another lecture like the one she gave him under the waters of Kinder Downfall, when he had asked her if Sleipnir would have been content bound to a stable. He had received a slap and a warning to not push those who loved him away then. Not to push her away.</p><p>But all Eivor does is sigh. Too much energy has been spent in Portcestre today, and neither of them have the strength for another sparring match, verbal or otherwise.</p><p>When the time comes to sleep Vili and Eivor work through the motions of their fledgling routine with exhausted clumsiness, but when Eivor comes to lay down in the space she has made, she pauses. Weight on her hands, she crouches over Vili with a pensive expression that almost causes him to sit up. But then she moves, sweeping her knees to the left instead of the right, and slips down beside him.</p><p>Without a word Eivor extends her arm as far as it will go across Vili’s chest. The weight of it feels good, warm, though it does little to distract Vili from the thump of his heart somewhere beneath her elbow. Her head twitches as she finds a comfortable space between planes of muscle and bone to rest. The tops of her braids tickle his throat where she settles.</p><p>Vili’s arm curls inwards once more to secure her to him. Her breath seems all the louder in his ears now he can feel its light pressure through his tunic.</p><p>How long it takes for them both to fall asleep, Vili cannot tell. As closes his eyes it is all he can do to focus on the moment, pushing the violence of the past day out of his mind and steeling his mind to the threat of the future.</p><p>What they would face from now on was a danger unknown. But for tonight, at least, they had each other. </p><p>--</p><p>
  <em>“Where have you been?” Eivor hissed as she finally caught sight of Vili slinking back towards the longhouse. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>It had been an uneasy day in Stavanger, in weather and in company. Blustering storm winds has come crashing from the sea the night before and pummelled all of Rygjafylke, whipping up snow and covering the entire holding in a dull grey mist. Its murk sat on Stavanger like a great weight, but the gloom did have its advantages. Vili had not been caught sneaking out of its walls to seek the warmth of Astrid’s body, nor on his return. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>No sooner had Eivor closed the space between them did she reach up and cuff Vili around the ear. “Your father was looking for you before his audience with the king,” she told him with hushed urgency. “He was angry to find out you had left.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“I’m sure he’ll be fine without me,” Vili grumbled, rubbing his ear. He was not privy to his father’s thoughts on whatever topic Hemming planned to discuss with King Styrbjorn, so felt no real regret in sneaking off. Besides, Vili knew the hundreds of problems that might have caused his father to seek counsel well enough. The poor soil and failing farmlands, the threat of Kjotve’s raiders, the weekly thefts of cattle and livestock, the list went on. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Or perhaps it was something entirely different. Vili had not been blind to the most recent chain of long nights Hemming and Trygve spent talking in hushed voices by the fire pit. Conversations not intended for Vili’s ears, and likely not interesting enough to catch his attention.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>The wind picked up once more, howling a strong gust and flinging snow into the air in a dizzying cloud. Between the cold pinpricks, Vili felt Eivor’s eyes as they narrowed on his flushed face.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“You were seeing Astrid again, weren’t you?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“No,” Vili snapped back, a little too quick to be convincing. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Eivor lunged, finding Vili’s collar and yanking it downwards, and Vili felt the cold sting of snow prickle his neck where Astrid’s insistent mouth had been hours ago. There was no doubt that the skin would be in bloom with mottled tones of blue and purple, a lasting reminder of their latest dalliance. He shoved Eivor away, face crimson. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Thought so. You’re a terrible liar,” Eivor said triumphantly. She was smug for a moment before the smile faded, replaced with something akin to worry. Her bottom lip disappeared between her teeth as she looked towards the longhouse. “You’re going to be in such trouble when someone finds out.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“You know and I haven’t been maimed yet,” Vili muttered. This dance was not a new one - he had been in the throes of Astrid’s spell since last spring; the perfect time for new love and all that goes with it. Each new season had brought fresh challenges, but none that had yet deterred him. Eivor had known of Vili’s infatuation from the start, even encouraged it alongside the braying jokes of her older brother and their friends. But come winter her demeanour had changed. She no longer smiled politely when Vili mentioned Astrid’s name, nor waited for him when he was late to a hunt. The topic had grown so cold that Vili scarcely mentioned Astrid at all, lest it spark another argument.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“It isn’t me you need to worry about, you know that,” Eivor sighed, crossing her arms and kicking at the snow. “This will not end well, Vili. You know her father has already betrothed her.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“And what if she doesn’t want the life he promised for her? What if she wants me?” Vili snapped hotly. The well-trodden path of this conversation was as assured as the sun rising in the morning, but neither friend was willing to back down. Eivor shook her head, lips tight.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“It does not matter, not when Astrid’s marriage can bring peace to warring clans.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“She is a woman, not a bargaining chip! What would you do if King Styrbjorn condemned you to be the wife of a Jarl? Think of it Eivor, a life of pandering and politicking, never allowed to roam freely. How would it feel to have your hugr struck down decades before your body?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“I would consider my responsibilities to my clan before I threatened to destroy a fledgling peace that has not yet hatched!” Eivor’s voice rose like a wildfire to meet Vili’s own ire. For all the women he had known, Eivor was the only one who would meet Vili at this level. It was comforting and infuriating; one more push and both of them would be scrapping in the snowdrift. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Vili thought back to his morning, wrapped in thick furs and pinned down by the weight of Astrid’s soft curves. He didn’t have time nor the patience to freeze his balls off fighting about what his heart wanted with Eivor. He turned to leave.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Don’t.” Eivor’s sure grip curled around Vili’s wrist. “You know I only say these things out of care. Please don’t go.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“I thought you of all people would understand,” Vili said thickly, not turning back to face her. “Not so long ago we dreamed together of carving our own futures, creating our own paths in life. What happened to you, Eivor?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Eivor’s grip faltered on Vili’s wrist and slowly let go. He heard her heave a long, wistful sigh.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“We are no longer children, Vili. The storms our parents shield us from will soon be on our shores. Do you not feel their winds?”</em>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Sigurd's Return</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Njǫrd blesses the Raven Clan with strong winds and quiet rivers on their return to Mercia. It is a welcome gift - the fighting at Portcestre had been tough, and precious few have emerged unscathed in one way or another. </p><p>Of all the faces on board, Rollo’s fares the worst. His dark scowl does little to soften the ugly purple swell of his eye and a scabbing wound pulling tight across his brow. Only those sitting furthest away from the young drengr dare throw jokes over the sound of rushing water. They suggest witticisms and rhyming couplets to weave into his latest story, shout “behold, the work of Birna the Breaker!” and cackle at the memory of Rollo’s face as Birna gripped him by the scruff of his neck during the dying gasps of Fulke’s defence. </p><p>Vili stays silent and focuses on the steady work of navigating the longship through England’s tight waterways. He remembers the explosive bang of Rollo’s hammer in the raider's lodgings on the night they first met, and the last thing the crew need is a hole in the ship’s hull this close to home.</p><p>Rollo’s is not the only sour face this afternoon. Eivor stands at the helm with unusual severity, only speaking to bark an order, her wary eyes avoidant and perpetually affixed to the horizon. Even Nali the ship cat goes wanting, and eventually slinks away from her usual curl around Eivor’s legs to seek attention elsewhere.</p><p>No one has made mention of Sigurd since leaving Portcestre. If the warriors of the Raven Clan have any opinions about their newly-found Jarl, they dare not voice them. Pockets of silence breed a grinding unease which sticks to the ship like a fine mist. A grave injury to a Jarl is one thing when he has deep roots in his lands; it is another when his clan is still finding its footing on foreign soils.</p><p>The silence won’t hold, of course. As soon as the crew are out of Eivor’s well-tuned earshot, Vili is certain their thoughts will flow as fast and freely as sweet wine. But Vili also knows that Eivor has little interest in idle gossip. If raiders smelling fresh opportunity arrive on their shores, they will be dealt with - those threats are easily prepared for when the war band is strong. </p><p>Eivor will have other matters on her mind. More pressing dangers to the clan, some more visible than others.</p><p>Ravensthorpe shines in hues of rich green and berry red as it appears around the riverbend, everything riotously bright in the full flush of summer. Curls of smoke and the smell of an already-roasting feast greet the crew before the ship has even drawn into dock. The shrill voices of Knud, Sylvi and Eira sing above the gathering crowd.</p><p>“Look! Eivor’s home!”</p><p>“Our drengrs return!”</p><p>“Have you brought anything for us?”</p><p>The trio jostle for the best spot to watch the longship come in with smiles stained pink from berries and the other spoils of summer. They are the first ones Eivor greets when she steps off the ship. Vili helps secure the ship and unload supplies, watching her with a half-smile as he hauls boxes to and fro. Eivor has always had a softness for the young and defenceless, even as a child herself. Kittens, puppies, chicks fresh from the egg - none were safe from her diligent affections.</p><p>“I have missed you on my travels,” Eivor tells them with honest warmth as she kneels to look them in the eyes. “Have you been taking care of Mouse?”</p><p>Knud, Sylvi and Eira nod in unison, and as if on cue, the great white wolf appears from the shade of a wide oak tree, wide jaws flashing pink and black as she yawns and slopes along to greet her master. Knud pushes out his chest and makes a show of patting Mouse on her enormous head as she passes. “Of course, I caught her dinner last night myself! A trout thiiis big!” the boy huffs proudly, stretching his arms wide.</p><p>“And we saw Sigurd Jarl! He arrived yesterday morning,” Eira chips in as Eivor ruffles Mouse’s ears. Then, almost as an afterthought, the little girl adds: “His axe arm is gone.”</p><p>The shift in Eivor’s demeanour is subtle but unmistakable. Everything gets a little tighter, smaller, stiller. Passers-by exchange silent glances. Vili sets down the heavy crate he carries and sees that beside him, Birna has stopped to watch too.</p><p>“How can a man fight without his axe arm, Eivor?” Knud asks, oblivious to the change in the air. “A warrior should have two so they can -”</p><p>Birna makes a sudden leap forward with such gusto that all three children turn, surprised and ecstatic. It is no secret that they love Birna nearly as much as Eivor, with her wild jokes and willingness to join in their dreamed-up games. “Any warrior worth their salt can fight with one arm, little drengrs!” Birna proclaims, her battle-worn grin like sunshine itself. “Shall we prove it to you?”</p><p>The trio roar in approval and scatter like mice, each sprinting in a different direction to find a stick to take up. Vili hears Eivor take a long, deep breath through her nose as she straightens and places a hand on Birna’s shoulder in silent thanks. When they return, each child is already taking practice swings. They stand in a neat line, straight backed and chins high, eagerly awaiting the next instruction. </p><p>“Very good!” Birna crows. She makes a show of balling one fist behind her back, then turns, and Vili is surprised to see her gaze land squarely on him. “Will you fight these giant-slayers by my side?” she asks in a tone that is convincing enough to almost make Vili believe he has a choice in the matter. </p><p>Birna’s expression on him is expectant. Eivor’s is… something else. Softness and hardness all at once. Vili heaves a sigh and pushes his palm to the small of his back, readying himself for the dull whip of wood against his bracers.</p><p>Sylvi is the easiest of the three to handle - she needs little more than a quick tug of the arm to be fully over Vili’s shoulder and shrieking with laughter when Vili stands to his full height. Eira opts for a different approach. She grips her stick between her teeth and leaps to wrap her arms around Vili’s bicep, legs cartwheeling uselessly in the air as she does so. Knud is the only child who attempts to actually fight with his makeshift weapon, but Birna is more than a match for his ire.</p><p>The play is exhausting, chaotic, loud. After some time and a handful of exasperated calls from their parents, Knud, Sylvi, and Eira all slink home to help prepare for the Jarl’s welcoming feast. Eivor is long gone by the time the shrill ringing in Vili’s ears fades.</p><p>“Come,” Birna tells him with a friendly pat on the back. “I have grown tired of looking at the water, and I am sure Randvi could use our help preparing for tonight.”</p><p>---</p><p>The woods outside of Ravensthorpe are shady and cool compared to the sun-bleached dock, perfect weather for collecting firewood. Vili and Birna stroll at a leisurely pace, Vili carrying a large basket to hold the branches and split logs Birna sporadically tosses to him. They talk idly of easy things: what happened in Suthsexe, how good it feels to stretch their legs after the long journey home, and the events that led to Rollo’s mottled black eye.</p><p>“I take it he hasn’t forgiven you?” Vili asks amusedly, stretching to catch a log that threatens to sail over his head. Birna looks over her shoulder between axe swings and tosses him a toothy grin.</p><p>“Bruised egos take longer to heal than bruised faces. I will let him lick his wounds tonight, and by morning we'll be as thick as thieves once more.”</p><p>“You sound confident of that.”</p><p>“I am.” Birna straightens and pauses to reach upwards, gripping a nearby branch and giving it an experimental wiggle. It cracks under pressure, and she seems to find delight in using the pointed edge of her axe to part it from the trunk. “I have always valued my friendships with those I fight alongside, but Rollo is different. From the moment I met him, I knew we were like a hammer and nail - each needing the other to fulfil our greater purpose. I sometimes feel I know his mind as well as I know my own.” Like everything with Birna, there is no pretence to her words. She turns to Vili, face full of not-quite-innocent curiosity. “Did you feel the same way when you and Eivor met?”</p><p>Vili pauses on the question, then shrugs, allowing himself only a moment to think of how his answer might be different had he and Eivor been permanently parted by the northern seas. “We were children when we met, too young to feel anything deeper than the hunger in our bellies at dinnertime,” he says honestly. “But yes, we have always been close.”</p><p>Birna makes a quiet ‘hmm’ in reply before gesturing for Vili to put the basket down and help her fill it. It seems there has been no rain in Ravensthorpe for weeks, and the fallen branches here are perfect for kindling. They work in relative silence for a time until Birna speaks up again, her voice wistful. </p><p>“I had other siblings once. Blood ones. A sister taken by fever, and a brother swallowed by the ocean in his first season. I miss them, but not in the way I would Rollo. Losing him would feel like -”</p><p>“Like losing a part of yourself? An arm, perhaps?” Vili waggles the splintered branch he holds, and Birna’s solemnity melts. Her laughter is so loud could shake the leaves clean from the trees.</p><p>“That is a wicked joke, considering the circumstances.”</p><p>Vili throws the branch in the basket with a dull thunk and grins, happy to see her pulled from a grim moment. “In happier times, Eivor and Sigurd would both appreciate the wordplay.” </p><p>As Birna’s laughter subsides, she gives Vili a strange, middling look that seems like it could be meaningful. The wind picks up and whistles through the grove, rustling the trees around them like a chorus of hushed whispers.</p><p>“Someday I would like to know them as well as you. Eivor’s devotion to her brother is plain to see,” Birna says, her scarred face twisted in reflection while the basket fills. “We all need someone like that, I suppose. A person who thinks the sunshine breaks from your arse cheeks each morning.”</p><p>“And Rollo is that for you?” Vili snorts. “We have both seen his bare backside - it is more like the moon, and just as pale.”</p><p>Birna’s cackling laugh shakes the trees again until, finally, the basket can hold no more. They lift it together, each taking a handle, and begin the slog back to Ravensthorpe. The task is slightly awkward - neither of them had accounted for their height difference when settling on this plan - but the walk is short and the beautiful day balms the dull annoyance of the basket banging against Vili’s thigh.</p><p>“What I’m saying is you do not get to choose the people who crawl their way under your skin,” Birna tells him as they reach the outskirts of the settlement. “Friends and lovers come and go, piles of them if you’re lucky, but you cannot fight the threads the Nornir weave together. Life is much more fun when you lean into their fabric without fear of it fraying.”</p><p>Birna throws Vili another one of those meaningful looks and Vili stops in his tracks, eyes narrowing.</p><p>“Are we still talking about Rollo’s sulk, or something else?”</p><p>“Oh, of course we are talking about Rollo! Why?” Birna asks, her grin becoming awfully long. “Did my words send your mind wandering to someone else?”</p><p>---</p><p>Sigurd’s welcome is the first feast Vili has ever wanted to leave early. </p><p>The festivities come to a stuttering halt before they even truly begin, killed dead by Sigurd’s white hot words and accusing finger pointed solely at his sister. Loose lipped madness, fuelled by something other than mead, burns in his pale eyes. The crowd are wide eyed and startled down to the last. No one is ale-soaked enough to gloss over the magnitude of what they have witnessed.</p><p>And Vili has never seen despair like Eivor’s as Sigurd leaves the longhouse. </p><p>Over time the clan begin to settle back into warm camaraderie, allowing the cold shock of Sigurd’s outburst to sluice off their shoulders in favour of happier things: singing, eating, wrestling, and drinking games chief among them. Vili dispatches two Jomsvikingrs at the horn with ease - if long-suffering Hemming taught his son anything, it was how to hold his drink. But even a bellyful of ale is not quite enough to mute the dull hum of whispers echoing beneath Holger’s lyrical verse, and the strangeness of the empty throne looming over all of them.</p><p>Vili is looking at the fur-lined throne with drifting thoughts of his own father when Randvi sits down beside him, shoulders curving as she places her cup on the table.</p><p>“Some silver for your thoughts, Vili?”</p><p>Vili lets a half-grin pull at his lips - nothing gets by Randvi, least of all an absent mind at a feast. “My thoughts are of no use to anyone. They linger in the past, though I am sure you will find many in this hall more preoccupied with today’s events.”</p><p>Randvi offers him a small, tense smile. “I daresay you are right.”</p><p>“So, what happened?” Vili had seen Randvi’s attempt to dissuade Eivor when she arrived, a meek paw at her cuff so easily shaken off. Randvi sighs and shakes her head.</p><p>“I don’t know. Sigurd has not been himself since he returned. Whatever Fulke did to him, its poison has penetrated deeply.”</p><p>“Are you alright?”</p><p>“Me? Oh, yes. It is kind of you to ask.” Randvi seems slightly taken aback at Vili’s question, though it loosens and warms the edges of her smile. She casts a glance back towards the head of the hall, where a familiar white-clad figure stands amongst a sea of blue and black leather. “Hytham has been a great help to me keeping things running while so many of you were gone.”</p><p>“Oh?” Vili takes a long drink, watching Randvi’s face with interest. “Did he save you from a cramping wrist? Or deliver more parchment to the longhouse?”</p><p>“Time spent with Basim has not endeared you to the Hidden Ones’ cause, I see,” she replies dryly, not missing a beat. Through the honey-haze of his mind, Vili reminds himself that not all women are like Eivor and Birna, who wear their feelings so freely on their face. </p><p>But Randvi’s words do trigger a mood change in him. Vili’s eyes swing across the hall towards its grand entrance, where Basim has been standing all night. He is as enigmatic as ever, watching the feast at its periphery with his leather hood drawn, trying to blend into the background as well as one dressed all in white can. Occasionally someone tries to draw him in, offers him a cup of ale or a place closer to the hearth. All are turned away in favour of that silent lean against the longhouse’s load bearing beam. The stance irritates Vili as much as it did at Briggworth.</p><p>“A man who obscures his face in a feast hall is usually up to no good,” he mutters into his drink. “Or doesn’t have much of a face left to show, and I can tell you that Basim took no skull-cracking blows in Suthsexe.”</p><p>“Well, you cannot judge all those who hide in the shadows by the same stick,” Randvi replies lightly. As the last of Vili’s mead disappears she pushes her own half-drank cup towards him. Eyeing it warily, he takes it and grunts a thanks.</p><p>“I sent Eivor out to talk to Sigurd after he stormed off, but neither have returned. Could you go and look for them?” </p><p>Ah, there was the reason for the extra drink. Randvi’s eyes look soft and pleading as Vili drains her cup. </p><p>“Must I?”</p><p>“It is unsettling for our clan to celebrate their return without either of them in sight.”</p><p>Vili grunts again. Though he is less than enthused at the prospect of inserting himself into whatever fractious tension divides Sigurd and Eivor, Randvi does speak some sense. The feast is hollow without them.</p><p>“Do you know where they might have gone?”</p><p>Randvi nods towards the back of the feasting hall. “Dag was one of the first people Sigurd asked for when we returned. I do not think he took the news of his death well. If you must start somewhere, perhaps look by the cemetery.”</p><p>---</p><p>True to Randvi’s word, Sigurd is found sitting amongst the grassy knolls of the burial ground. The Jarl - his Jarl now, Vili supposes - looks out at Ravensthorpe with blank contemplation, cheeks drawn and gaunt in the cooling light of evening, stump hanging awkwardly where the elbow would usually press into his thigh. </p><p>It is a sorry sight to see Sigurd this way, and the sadness of it sits heavy in Vili’s heart. It does not pass him by that under different circumstances men in the longhouse might compare them, as they did so many winters ago in Norway. Both strong, adventurous, a measure too bold and occasionally a trifle too competitive for their own good. Had Vili been older, perhaps it would have been he and Sigurd who would have become inseparable as children. But their paths had been drawn in different directions long ago, defined by ambition as much as circumstance. </p><p>Perhaps that’s why it is so hard to see Sigurd alone, glass-eyed and vacant beneath the gaze of the gods’ wooden effigies, divorced from his yearning to be at the head of the hall while his clan sing and dance and toast to his health. It is even harder to understand the chasm separating him and his sister, though its presence tonight is felt everywhere. Vili turns his eyes skywards to look at the half moon overhead, early in its dusk arrival.</p><p>“It is a fine evening to visit the dead Sigurd, though I know many among the living who would like to see their Jarl.”</p><p>“Vili.” Sigurd’s voice is cracked and has a faraway quality that Vili cannot place. He continues to stare into realms unknown, but the acknowledgement is something of a comfort. </p><p>“It is good to see you, old friend,” Vili steps forward to study Sigurd’s face more closely. “You have changed a great deal since I last saw you, though I see you are no less beloved by your people.”</p><p>And it is true. Despite the bitter fighting, the clan is in fine voice, and their melody carries easily through the night. Sigurd looks down at the dust coating his boots.</p><p>“Yes, you could say that, I suppose.” </p><p>It is not Sigurd’s words that sow seeds of unease in Vili’s gut, but the lack of them. He seems to have been husked of everything that made him, well, Sigurd - the good and bad. If picking up his friendship with Eivor had come as natural as breathing, whatever fills the air between Vili and Sigurd feels as strange and heavy as trying to force a dead man’s heart to beat. </p><p>Vili has seen many grown men upended and changed in battle. Some return home with no recollection of their families, others are hewn of their ability to use their arms and legs. But he has no experience of a wound like this, that severs a man from himself so cleanly and without warning.</p><p>When Sigurd falls again into silence, Vili looks for Eivor. She is nowhere to be seen.</p><p>“Randvi sent me to fetch you and your sister to rejoin the feast. The people would like to look upon the Jarl they raise their cups to.”</p><p>Sigurd's lack of response sends another churn of disquiet careening through Vili’s belly. The carved eyes of Odin, Freya, and Thor seem to watch them both, the braziers lit at their feet throwing flickering light into their stern faces. Sigurd’s head turns towards the statues, expression pensive. </p><p>“Tell me something, old friend,” he says. “You have known me as the man I was before all of this, when I was as young and green as the grass Dag now feeds. Before you left for England, your father took it upon himself to counsel me for what he thought was to come. He told me that the trials a man must face when leading his people will never change his nature, but reveal it.” Sigurd makes a turn and draws himself up straight, what is left of his axe arm stiff as he opens out his chest. It is a half-proud flourish, a ghost of a character long gone. “Am I revealed? Do now you see my one true self?”</p><p>Hearing Sigurd mention Hemming is an unexpected kick in the chest. Hemming had cared for Sigurd as much as Eivor, though Vili seldom saw his father counsel Sigurd during their years in Norway, such then was Vili’s desire to avoid learning about the drudgery of Jarldom. Still, it was unsurprising to learn that the old goat travelled to Fornburg alone to impart some final wisdom before taking to the whale-road. </p><p><em>By Odin’s eye father,</em> Vili says silently to himself,<em> I am glad you cannot see him now.</em></p><p>Vili takes another look at Sigurd, milky-eyed madness sitting atop a thin and broken body, and tries to look past what his eyes take in. Something deeper, like a shining pearl at the bottom of a lake, a glimmering spark that gives him hope that <em>yes Sigurd, I do see you, you are still in there</em>. But all Vili can see is the twitch of his eyes, the thinness of his mouth, and the empty air where a strong forearm used to be. Maybe the fault is in him, he cannot say, but Vili will not lie after all this time. </p><p>“I am unsure if there is such a thing as a true self. The Sigurd I knew from the hills of Fornburg was a son, a brother, a fighter, a charmer, and a good friend.” Vili tilts his head and hopes his voice carries his sincerity. “I cannot say which parts I look upon now, but I hope they will all return in time.”</p><p>To Vili’s surprise, Sigurd grants him a watery smile. He slouches over once more and heaves a slow, heavy sigh, the wisps of grandeur leaving him once more. “Of course. I thought that perhaps, with unsullied eyes, you might... no matter. If you still seek my sister, Eivor left that way some time ago.” He gestures to the left of him, a vague nod to the edge of Ravensthorpe furthest from the river.</p><p>Vili leaves the cemetery alone and full of questions that have no answer. By Odin’s grace Sigurd lives to lead his clan another day. But standing amongst the fallen, Vili cannot escape the inexplicable feeling that some parts of Sigurd are already gone, left in the earth of Wessex, trophies of the dead that no longer belong with the living.</p><p>---</p><p>Approaching a riled Eivor has never been the most pleasant of tasks, and is made even less so by Vili's conversation with Sigurd. She paces the road behind the longhouse, muscles twitching like thick rope under load, tense and ready for a blow that will not come. Her prowling sets Vili’s teeth on edge. The mirth of the feast feels distant, though its warmth and music are only a measure of wood away. She stops and raises her eyes to Vili when he nears.</p><p>“Did you see him? Did you speak to him?” </p><p>Eivor’s words tumble out of her in a pitchy, tumultuous growl, as if they have been crammed under her tongue until this very moment. Her hands flex as she speaks, open and shut, open and shut, trying to expend energy that has nowhere else to go. Vili knows this pattern, and wonders who will be the unlucky recipient of her fists tonight. </p><p>“I did.” Vili says and, thinking the following quiet holds too much risk for loose interpretation, hastily adds: “he is injured, Eivor. He needs time to heal.”</p><p>“Did you hear what he said in the longhouse?”</p><p>“Wolves in the forests heard what he said.” The tart jibe is a little too quick off Vili’s lips, and he immediately curses the mead-slick of his mouth. Thankfully, it isn’t enough to trigger a response. Eivor remains still as Vili swallows and nods up the road, Randvi’s request ringing in his ears.</p><p>“Let us return to the feast, old friend. The people of Ravensthorpe need to see at least one of Styrbjorn’s children at this clan’s helm tonight.”</p><p>“I am in no mood for celebration, Vili.”</p><p>“But the people are, and they deserve more than an empty throne for their efforts.” </p><p>Pointing this out earns Vili a dismissive grunt, but soon Eivor pauses, forehead tied in a little knot as she thinks. In the torch-lit haze of evening, Vili realises with dim awareness that they are both the cleanest they have been in weeks, finally washed of the blood and sweat and shit-tinged mud of Wessex. He studies Eivor’s profile while her head is turned, thinking of the sparring accident that earned her that little bump on the bridge of her nose and the stern thumping he received thereafter. Her hair is neater than he has seen it in many moons - <em>when</em> <em>did she learn how to braid it properly? - </em>and the tattooed raven that curls around her ear stares back at him with silent interest. Something akin to that light, bubbly feeling of seeing her for the first time again flickers in Vili’s chest. </p><p>Because she is beautiful. Not in a frivolous way, or the way that fires the blood and stirs the body, though by the Gods she can do both. She is beautiful in the way that allows Vili to look without fear of recompense, seeing her anger and frustration and hurt without looking away. Eivor sighs and her eyes track back to his. </p><p>“Do you remember the night before your father’s funeral, where we distracted each other from our grief?” </p><p>She knows fine well he remembers. “How much mead do you think I’ve had to drink?” Vili scoffs, but when Eivor doesn’t smile, he drops the play from his voice. She stands close to him, the distance one might take when letting a horse and cart by, but the worn road is theirs alone. Her eyes on his are as hard as lapis.</p><p>Swallowing, he tries again. “Yes, of course. But I fail to see how that -”</p><p>“Distract me,” Eivor whispers. Vili only has a moment to take in her stone-set face before the gap between them is closed and he feels her mouth collide with his.</p><p>It is a bruising strike of a kiss - forceful, unyielding, carrying enough force to send them both backwards into the tall curve of the longhouse. She kisses as though would rather fight him than feel him, every string of tension fraught in her body, from the tips of her toes to the claw of her fingers that grip at his elbows. </p><p>The shock of it dulls Vili’s mind like damp wool, and his thoughts are as soft and spongy as moss when Eivor suddenly rocks back on her heels, dropping back with a speed that suggests her mind still fires a great deal faster than his. But in the handful of heartbeats it takes to part, there is a thaw in the frost-bitten edge of Eivor’s eyes. It lets something new eke into the fringes that only he can see. Trepidation, anxiety.</p><p>Vili reaches out a hand to frame her jaw and pulls it upwards. His mouth follows, and all semblance of restraint in him snaps like drywood.</p><p>Kissing her is lightning itself, like the battle thrum of steel on steel, a force so strong that pulling away even for a moment risks dislodging them both from all nine worlds and sending them someplace dark and unknown. It steals the breath from Vili’s lungs before giving it back, numbs his fingers before sending fire through them. His hands are large enough to feel the mark of the wolf on her neck without his palm ever leaving her jaw. She is soft and warm and wonderful beneath his hands, body moulded against his, her arms finding their way around his neck to draw him down to her height. </p><p>
  <em>Vili, you know this was a momentary heat. Just a flickering flame.</em>
</p><p>The careful words shout somewhere low in Vili’s mind, but he doesn’t care. Her fingers thread through his hair, thumbing across the shaved edge.</p><p>
  <em>Yes. We let our passions set sail, just this once.</em>
</p><p>The words are becoming bigger now, louder, swallowing the warm muzzy silence.</p><p>
  <em>The Raven Clan wants friends in England, and you are among my very best.</em>
</p><p>Until he can no longer ignore them and -</p><p>He knows Eivor feels it in his body before he pulls away. A moment of hesitance, a twitch of uncertainty before the balance is tipped. And from Vili, the man she knows as the friend with hot blood and little sense. The one who acts first, thinks later.</p><p>Eivor ducks under his arm and walks into the night before he can even look at her face. </p><p>Vili wants to call on her, tell her to stop, make her turn and <em>look at him</em>, but his kiss-stung mouth is useless and his legs even more so. Eivor disappears from sight, and Vili has little else to do but return to the longhouse, empty handed and wretchedly sobered, any appetite he had for company gone. </p><p>Later Vili finds himself at the docks, watching the water pass beneath creaking wooden beams while the rest of the clan sail on honey-waves. His father had taught him many things about rivers when he was young. Some practical - how to avoid banking a boat in the shallows, the ways to know if a river was good for fishing, that sort of thing -  others more abstract. Hemming talked often of the path of rivers, how their long curves deepened over time with swell and surge, irreversibly changing the water's course. “The rivers I knew as a boy are different to those you see,” he would tell Vili, “and they will be different again for your sons.”</p><p>Vili turns his father’s words over and over in his mind. Something between he and Eivor feels like it has broken tonight, like a great river bursting its banks in a storm, unexpected and all-consuming. </p><p>There is no going back, no pushing the water back to where it once lived. Vili sighs and begins the long wait for the swell to recede, hoping that beneath it all, something from the wreckage will be salvageable.</p><p>---</p><p>
  <em>“Vili! Come look what I found!”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Vili squinted through the thicket of trees, trying to follow the sound of Eivor’s shout as his hands checked and reset another trap. With the worst of winter now behind them, the pair had fallen into their usual pattern of spending time in the forest, every day adventuring a little deeper as the thickest of the snows melted and gave way to spring. The hills were still too treacherous to stalk deer alone, but rabbits and hares were easy game this time of year. Vili pushed their latest catch into his satchel as Eivor finally came into view, missing the thick gloves she had set off with. She held her bare hands clasped together like a cup, and leaping over the foliage with light footed grace, she thrust her find towards him, eyes excited and expectant.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“What is it?” Vili asked, trying to peer over her fingertips from his haunches.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Look!”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>The steep hills and forests around Fornburg weren’t exactly brimming with treasures, but a lucky scavenger could find some precious trinkets in the half-melted snow: a golden brooch, unused arrowheads, some silver coins if Njǫrd was smiling upon you. Vili straightened, eager, and was immediately stung with sharp disappointment. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>A baby bird, half bald and charcoal black, sat sprawled in Eivor’s palms. It was young and frail, too little to be out of the nest.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Eivor brought her hands to her face, gazing on her new-found treasure with gentle affection. “It’s a raven, or rather, it will grow to be a raven. I found it on the ground. It must have fallen from the nest,” she told Vili with the soft-hearted tenderness he had come to expect from her when finding some sad thing to look after. He peered into her hands again, trying to find the sweetness in the odd-looking creature that tugged at Eivor’s heartstrings. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“It hasn’t even sprouted its flight feathers,” he said flatly, giving the chick a poke. “Odds are it will be dead by tomorrow.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Eivor’s hands clamped down around the little bird, shielding it from Vili’s gaze and thrusting it out of his reach in an instant. “It will not!” she snapped hotly. “We have to help her.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Her?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Yes, her. I’ve named her Synin.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Vili didn’t reply for a while after that; arguing about the fact that Eivor could not possibly know if the tiny hatchling was a girl or a boy did not seem worth the effort. They trudged through the slush to the next trap without comment, though when the time came to check it, Vili made a point of turning to face her.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“You know the rules. We take turns. Go on.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Eivor did not move. Her stare was pointed, lips thin, and Vili could swear he heard the tittering of weak birdsong leak from between her palms. Vili lasted a few moments more in their deadlock of wills before he finally groaned and dropped to his knees. Spring may have softened the frozen ground, but it was still bitingly cold on the forest floor.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“I hope you know she -”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Synin.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Really? Fine, I hope you know Synin is your burden alone,” Vili grumbled, feeling for the familiar wire loop amidst the undergrowth. “I came up here for rabbits, not a new pet. Surely we both have better things to do than forage berries for a bird?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“You are cruel, you know that?” Eivor scowled from behind him. He could hear her rocking back and forth on her feet, boots crackling against the leaves and broken sticks underfoot. “Some Jarl you’ll be when you’re older!”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“And some war chief you’ll be, with your bleeding heart for all things small and broken.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>The rocking stopped. Vili jerked his head, quick to defend from a swift kick to the backside, but when he looked back Eivor simply stood, brow twisted, biting her down on her lip. “Broken things need help to be mended, troll-face,” she said with a slight waver in her voice. “And speaking of help, you can check the rest of the traps yourself.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>With that, Eivor turned and promptly began to march away, cupped hands held to her chest, lips whispering to Synin against her frozen knuckles. As Vili tried to scramble to his feet he felt a sharp bite around his wrist. The wire of the snare was thin enough to catch his skin in a hot pinch, and he hissed as he tried to untangle himself, watching as Eivor became less and less visible through the treeline.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Eivor, there are still a dozen traps to do!”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>She didn’t look back. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Come on, you know our arms will be full!”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>She disappeared from view.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Shit,” Vili muttered to himself, rubbing the red line where the snare had caught him. He heaved a sigh, slung the satchel over his shoulder, and carried on alone.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>If that bird lives, he thought to himself, she can have all the damn silver from this hunt. </em>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Home</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>It is weeks before Vili sees Eivor again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Randvi informs him early one morning that Eivor answers the call of another distant summon. After what happened in Suthsexe, the four kingdoms burst with skald songs of a yellow-haired drengr once more, and with that comes the renewed mewlings of the Jarls and lordlings of England. In spite of himself, Vili worries for her. These summons are curtained asks; pithy shows of neediness to hide a shrewd assessment of her threat. Vili has watched enough political dancing in England’s halls and longhouses to know the steps well.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But in truth, there is little time to dwell on Eivor's whereabouts. Ravensthorpe quickly becomes a study in contradictions in her absence, keeping her Jomsvikingrs busy and fleet of foot. Daytime heat brings wild storms in the night. Momentary peace fosters boredom, which turns into fistfights and bloody brawls before long. But most jarring of all is how the settlement grows. It feeds and feeds while feeling emptier than ever before. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sigurd’s intemperate hand and ruthless justice has made it so. Exiles, fines, trials; all have become a sudden fixture of daily chatter. Ravensthorpe’s streets are silent, and her longhouse has turned empty and stale. Even the lighter nights and abundant food of summer are not enough to coax the people together - the risk of attracting the attention of their Jarl’s warring mood is too great. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Perhaps that is why the sight of Eivor feels like such a relief to Vili when she approaches, head bowed in deep conversation with Sunniva, on a bright and sunny afternoon. If there is anyone who can coax out the parts of Sigurd that had once been kind and gentle, it’s her.</span>
</p><p>Eivor meets her warriors a short distance from their usual stomping grounds, on the construction site of a new Jomsvikingr hall. In spite of the cloying heat she is dressed in furs and thick boots. It draws a sharp contrast against the loose linens and states of semi-undress of the crew. <em>She must have gone north</em>, Vili thinks as people swarm around her. Eivor catches Vili’s eye and offers him a half-smile while she removes the heavy cloak from her shoulders. </p><p>“Eivor! Welcome home!” Rollo shouts from somewhere in wooden skeleton of the hall. When he emerges he sidles up to Eivor with a hammer in each hand, his chest bare and dripping with sweat. “Do you see anything you like?” he croons, to a chorus of groans from the crew. </p><p>“You’re as white as milk in this sun, Rollo. Put your chest away, lest you burn our eyes,” Birna teases before rounding on Eivor herself. “Can you believe this man? Spends three days in Grantebridge whorehouses last week and still he preens like a peacock for any pretty woman he sees. Though,” she adds hopefully, “if you are looking for a welcoming bedfellow, Sunbeam…”</p><p>“It is good to see you both in high spirits,” Eivor laughs, clapping Rollo and Birna on the shoulder. “And I see you have all been busy putting the spoils of our raids to good use.”</p><p>“It was Randvi’s idea,” says Vili. He has the decency to pull his tunic over his head before he approaches, and Birna’s face falls a little at the sight. “At the rate Ravensthorpe grows, we will outgrow the dockside by winter.”</p><p>“We have outgrown it,” Rollo corrects. “Poor Sunniva has already taken to sleeping under the tables of our little hall.”</p><p>“That has nothing to do with space, and everything to do with your snoring,” Sunniva mutters. This sends Birna into a round of wheeling laughter so loud Vili hears dogs howling along back in Ravensthorpe. </p><p>“Space aside, it is a good idea,” Eivor grins as she takes in their progress. “Better halls will attract warriors from the length and breadth of England, and we will need their strength as Ravensthorpe grows.” Her eyes flicker towards Sunniva, and Vili gathers that Eivor must already know about the recent expulsion of clan members. “I look forward to our first drink when the hall is complete.”</p><p>“Tekla already has our requests,” Vili replies. “Welcome home, my friend.”</p><p>---</p><p>When Vili ambles away from the Jomsvikingr hall to eat and rest from the midday sun, he is surprised to find that Eivor joins him. They sit on a makeshift bench a little ways away from the rest of the crew, watching heavy logs be raised and moved into place. Rollo has taken it upon himself to direct the work while Sunniva and Norvid delegate the fetching and gathering of supplies from the docks. Birna sits cross-legged on the ground and paints signage, her tongue poking through her teeth in concentration while she works. The warriors of the Raven Clan are remarkably efficient when left to their own devices, and Vili can tell Eivor thinks the same by her little smile.</p><p>They sit in silence for a while, watching the crew while Vili eats. He carves slivers of what he has with his hunting knife - bread, cheese, cured venison, an apple - and offers them to Eivor speared on the tip of his blade. She takes the food gratefully, and Vili is glad to feel no lingering awkwardness between them. </p><p>“How has he been?” Eivor asks. She does not need to say his name for Vili to know she refers to Sigurd. </p><p>“It has been a difficult few weeks,” he replies, deciding that there is no reason to sweeten his words if Sunniva has already delivered the facts. “He seldom leaves his room, except to speak with Basim. When he does venture out, he passes through Ravensthorpe without truly seeing it. Too busy muttering with spirits and trying to outrun his own shadow. The streets are quiet. Most avoid gathering at the longhouse in case they attract his ire.”</p><p>Eivor’s lip disappears between her teeth and she frowns. “I hoped my absence would have settled him,” she says, though there is an edge to her tone which suggests her hope did not overshadow her pragmatism. Vili shrugs and feathers the long grass next to them between his fingertips. He pictures Sigurd stalking the longhouse like a caged beast, unshackled but no freer than when he first emerged from the church in Suthsexe.</p><p>“Perhaps it is the opposite he needs.”</p><p>Eivor hums a non-committal reply and picks at the remainder of a bread chunk before tossing it to the ground for Synin. A couple of dogs perk their ears and swivel in the direction of the dropped food before the raven descends and swallows the scraps whole. Eivor herself turns to look at Vili, and he is surprised to see her cheeks speckled with a flush of pink that has nothing to do with the hot weather. </p><p>“I want to apologise for the night of the feast. I was… it was… it was an unkind thing to ask of you so abruptly.”</p><p>Eivor is stammering. Eivor doesn’t stammer. As far back as he can remember, Vili cannot recall a time where she has sounded less sure of herself. He knows he can’t mask the surprise on his face as Eivor’s eyes suddenly skip to something intensely interesting in the grass underfoot. </p><p>But, oh, this is an <em>opportunity</em>. A rare gift from the Gods to play her like a fiddle without her canny words to save her. Vili holds in a chuckle and forces his voice to be light.</p><p>“You also left for weeks on end without so much as a goodbye.”</p><p>Eivor squirms at that and reddens further. Vili has to bite down his laugh as he tightens the screw.</p><p>“I considered writing a note, but it didn’t feel right.”</p><p>“And a good thing too. Your talent with words has always lain on your tongue Wolf-Kissed, never in your hands.” Vili heaves a mournful, dramatic sigh. “And if this is your apology, I dread to think about the quality of your chicken-scrawled letter.”</p><p>Quite suddenly, Eivor stills. Her blush is still hot, but her gaze swivels back to Vili with a direct shrewdness that seems much more like her.</p><p>“You are enjoying this, aren’t you?”</p><p>Vili lets a long, wolfish grin slope over his mouth and he taps her hand with the flat edge of his blade. “Birna has been prodding me to better appreciate the small pleasures in life. I consider this my first application of her lesson.”</p><p>He is too slow to move out of Eivor’s striking distance. The force of her fist colliding with the side of his head makes Vili’s ears ring, but he still hears the relieved chuckle in her voice when she calls him a “Troll-brained Arse-Stick” once more. </p><p>When he can finally hear clearly again, Vili sheathes his knife and reaches out to take Eivor’s hand. It is strong and warm, smaller than he recalls. Her fingers twitch under his in a way that is not wholly unpleasant. </p><p>“Neither of us were ourselves that night. We were swept up in a rogue wave, knocked off course by Sigurd’s return.” He squeezes her hand and feels her squeeze back. “You are as close a friend as I will ever have, Eivor.”</p><p>For a moment, Eivor looks as though she holds words back. She looks at Vili with fierce intensity, lips slightly ajar, eyes flitting over his face as though trying to pluck one thought from many. </p><p>The expression reminds Vili of how she looked after kissing him by the longhouse. The clearness of her eyes, exposed emotion swept across her features, hesitant and vulnerable only to him. His fool’s brain urges him to touch her cheek, trace down the pitted scar and over the soft pink of her lips. But he won’t. The world around them holds enough challenge without muddying the ties of the truest friendship he has. </p><p>In the end, Eivor remains silent. Gaze stilled, she squeezes Vili’s hand once more in silent thanks before pulling away.</p><p>“So,” Vili says, returning to his lazy posture as the crew work. “What do you return with? Aside from the stink of road dust and Saxon bandits on your armour.”</p><p>Eivor rummages in a pocket attached to her belt and produces a large torc. “An alliance with Halfdan Jarl and the support of the fighting men of Eurvicscire. He reminded me of you,” she says with a wry smile. “Built like an oak tree and as strong as a Jötunn. But the similarities stop there - he is much cleverer and does not always reek of ale.”</p><p>“From what I remember, Halfdan is not a man easily impressed.” Vili takes the torc from Eivor’s hands and inspects it. It is a beautiful thing that gleams in the summer sun. “I can only imagine your tongue charmed your way into his good graces, for no man would tremble at the sight of your scrawny frame on the battlefield.” He tosses the torc back and, suddenly thinking on his last visit to Eurvicscire, asks: “how is Beonton?”</p><p>“Beonton... Halfdan’s dog?” Eivor’s expression twists into something caught between surprise, bemusement, and profound irritation. “I have spent weeks fighting Picts, raiding fortresses, ratting out traitors and thieves from the nest of Northumbria... and you ask me about Halfdan’s <em>dog</em>!?”</p><p>When Vili’s expectant silence does not break Eivor throws her hands in the air, exasperated. “The dog is fine. Better than fine. He is a sturdy beast, well loved and well cared for by his master. He is probably the only creature in Midgard that Halfdan fully trusts right now.”</p><p>“I am glad.” Vili’s face breaks into a wide smile and his shoulders slouch further, relaxed by the good news. “My father and I would often visit Halfdan’s court, especially in our first winters in England. With the threat of the Picts in the north and Saxon lordlings scurrying like vermin to the south, it paid well to maintain such a powerful alliance. Whilst my father would spend the nights speaking with Halfdan about erecting camps and border defences, I would get stinking drunk in Donecaestre. I fell asleep with that dog under my arm more times than I care to count.”</p><p>Eivor’s eyes roll with such enthusiasm that they seem to disappear into the back of her head. “Of course you did,” she smirks. “It should not surprise me that you would rather sleep beside a slobbering mutt than entertain the northern thegns.”</p><p>“Nothing has changed in that respect.” Vili quips. This time he has the foresight to duck just as Eivor’s fist flies over the space above him, mouth agape in mock outrage. “The skalds will soon sing of your great deeds in Eurvicscire Wolf-Kissed, and they are far better at telling your stories than you,” he laughs, raising his hands to placate her. “I have yet to experience my first winter in Ravensthorpe and already I know that.”</p><p>Eivor huffs and crosses her arms over her chest. “Well, even if you are not interested in hearing my retelling, I am glad to have gone. It was a welcome break from recent events.”</p><p>“You need more fun in your life if you think navigating your way through the web of liars and thieves holding up Northumbria is a break,” Vili replies, knowing that Eivor will have no smart comeback to that. She huffs once more and pouts like a child. “When was the last time you enjoyed yourself?”</p><p>“Beating you at sparring. That always lifts my spirits.” Eivor’s eyebrow quirks and she looks to him, hopeful and challenging.</p><p>“Ah, well, we cannot do that now I am fresh bodied. You would have no chance.”</p><p>“I would be happy to put that to the test. And if you are so fresh bodied, you clearly have not been working hard enough to build this new hall of yours.”</p><p>“Speaking of,” Vili stands and brushes himself down before extending his hand to Eivor. “We could use another pair of hands to make the structure watertight before nightfall. It won’t soothe a weary body, but the company might be a balm for your nerves. What do you say?”</p><p>Eivor’s hand finds Vili’s before his ask is through.</p><p>---</p><p>“You know, when I asked you to help, the purpose was to make the job go faster, not slower.”</p><p>Vili’s grumbling earns him nothing but a sly, shit-eating grin as he grabs another strip of tree bark from Eivor’s hands and manipulates it into place. They work together to build the first layers of the hall’s roof: Eivor positioning the bark across rafters, Vili following her with hammer and nail. The first time she allows the bark to slip Vili thinks it is a mistake, a momentary distraction from the task at hand. But then it happens again. And again. After yanking a fifth wayward nail out of the bare wood, Vili makes no attempt to hide the irritation plastered on his face. It makes Eivor’s grin all the wider.</p><p>“You know, if you were faster with lining up the nails, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”</p><p>He knows the game she plays. This is a winding payback for teasing her earlier. It doesn’t stop him falling for it. </p><p>Vili dips into this pocket and draws out a fistful of iron nails before thrusting them in front of Eivor’s face. “I will sacrifice a watertight roof and shove the rest of these up your arse if it stops you talking.”</p><p>“Not before I knock you off, you lumbering fool,” Eivor snaps back, though her words are soft at the edges. She shifts her weight across the beams to free a foot, and Vili is just quick enough to catch her ankle as it flies to the side of him, attempting to kick the ladder he stands on.</p><p>They stay like that a moment, muscles struggling against one another, until something small and dark comes sailing through the air towards them. A ripe plum hits Eivor on the back of the head with a satisfying thud. The impact is enough to pull a curse from her lips and she turns, standing tall on the supporting beams, balance solid as she peers down at the rest of the crew.</p><p>“Who threw that?”</p><p>“Sorry Eivor!” Birna calls to her in a sing-song voice, shuffling as she tries to hide the fruit in her hands. “I thought I heard a couple of sparrows chattering on the roof and wanted to feed them. A strange thing, for I thought they only sang at dawn.”</p><p>“Even sparrows have the sense to shut up before all the other birds in the trees bore of their noise,” Rollo barks. He handles Birna’s metaphor with as much grace as a hammer strike, and it is enough to make Eivor and Vili both break into laughter. It takes a stern telling off from Sunniva some time later for all of them to finish the job at hand. </p><p>---</p><p>Come evening, Eivor’s invitation to Vili to join her in the longhouse goes unspoken; all it takes is a look and a small nod to know she means for him to follow. Vili does so willingly. It would be foolish to pass an opportunity to escape the heat and stink the cramped raider’s lodgings, but more than that, it is further proof that all is well between them again.</p><p>He won’t tell her, but sleeping alone these past few weeks has left Vili chasing rest. Even in the humid barracks there is a coldness by his side without Eivor curled there, kicking at his legs and pulling his arms to her liking. </p><p>He has missed her. And walking side by side towards the longhouse, Vili allows himself to wonder if she has missed him too.</p><p>Mouse lays at the foot of Eivor’s bed and raises her huge yellow eyes to them as they enter. Eivor’s bedroom isn’t often used - the neatness of her furs and the dust-lined shelves would tell Vili as much even if he didn’t know of her travels - and yet it still feels indescribably <em>hers</em>. As Eivor strokes Mouse’s muzzle and moves to draw a heavy curtain over the room’s entrance, Vili hovers a hand over some of her trinkets. Tokens from fights, gifts from friends. Precious relics of the life she has forged in England, a saga he might now be a footnote in.</p><p>“You keep a neat space for one who used to be happy sleeping in hay bales, Wolf-Kissed.”</p><p>Behind him he hears Eivor snort. “As I recall, you were the one to always keep your room like a pigsty. You said it brought you closer to the outdoors, for nothing in nature is well kept.”</p><p>“And I am yet to be proven wrong,” Vili chuckles. He kicks off his boots before sitting on the edge of the bed. It is too warm tonight to slip beneath the furs, so he pulls his legs up and lies back atop them.</p><p>The bed is blissfully soft compared to the thin pile of straw and rough blanket Vili is used to by the docks. He groans as he sinks downwards, eyes fluttering shut, stretching out until each joint from tailbone to shoulder cracks. He opens one eye to see Eivor hiding an amused smile.</p><p>“Comfortable?” she asks, pulling her own boots off.</p><p>“I feel as if Eir herself kisses down my back, soothing aches I did not know I had.”</p><p>Eivor sits on the bed and shoos Mouse as she tries to shuffle her way onto her master's lap. The rebuff earns Eivor a short growl and the wolf hops down, sulking. Vili moves his arm to make space for Eivor to slip down beside him, but she remains upright, her eyes watching him thoughtfully.</p><p>“I must admit, I am surprised that you have been happy to stay in the raider’s lodgings.” Eivor leans back and Vili braces for the usual mule-kick, but instead her foot slinks over his knee, heel travelling down his leg and before hooking against his calf. His tiredness quite suddenly leaves him. “There is little more I look forward to when I come home than sleeping in my own bed.”</p><p>“Comfort is a small price to pay for adventure,” Vili murmurs as Eivor sinks down. “The longer time separates me from my life in Hemthorpe, the more my desire fades for such luxuries, and I only miss what I cannot live without. I think -”</p><p>Vili’s words are cut short when Eivor reaches over his chest, finds his nipple through his tunic and twists hard. He yelps and bolts upright, slapping her hand away.</p><p>“Hel, Eivor!”</p><p>“That is for comparing me to a slobbering mutt earlier,” she sniggers. Vili rubs his chest and huffs. He makes a move to throw her leg off him, but when her heel tightens against his calf he settles for a stinging slap against her thigh. Eivor’s laughter is tinged with a light hiss when he lays back down.</p><p>“You can be such a child,” he pouts. Eivor wiggles closer to him. Shed of their leather armour and metal plates, he can feel more of her now than he did during those long nights in Wessex. The heat of her body is more pronounced, the curve of her hip visible beneath the loose tunic she wears. </p><p>“I am sorry,” Eivor says in a voice that tells him she is not sorry at all. Her hand still hovers on his chest, over his heart, and there is no doubt she can feel its canter.</p><p>A handful of weeks ago Vili pulled away from Eivor, rejecting her closeness. Since then he has thought of that night many times over, wondering what might have happened had he not hesitated.</p><p>In the maelstrom of Sigurd’s return, coming together had felt wrong. Ruinous. A veering off course into something too complex to be handled between them. Maybe it still was. </p><p>But at the same time, fate had brought them here. Together in England, pressed against one another in midsummer heat, Eivor’s hand on Vili’s heart.</p><p>He knows the arguments - he repeats them to himself over and over. But right now, he doesn’t care.</p><p>If this is all it comes to, he will have no regrets.</p><p>Vili watches Eivor’s pale eyes as she leans down and turns his head when she is close. Their noses press against one another and he feels the hitch of her breath, feather-light and achingly beautiful, on his lips.</p><p>“I missed you.” Her voice is barely a whisper against his mouth, but he sees no worry in her eyes or hesitation in her hand as it presses more firmly to his chest. </p><p>Her kiss is honey-sweet, and it stays on his lips until the early light of morning.</p><p>---</p><p>
  <em>The floorboards creaked beneath him and Vili, knowing he was fucked the moment he heard the wood groan, froze.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>The shadowed figure in front of him did not acknowledge the intrusion. This wasn’t the first time Hemming had caught Vili sneaking back to the longhouse in the wee hours. Vili tensed and waited for the hot sear of his father’s words, but was surprised when the cold silence persisted. Hemming was as still as stone as he sat by the dying fire, the light barely touching his slouched silhouette. He heaved a long sigh through his nose, and Vili saw a battle-scarred hand rise up to beckon him from the gloom.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“My son, come sit with me awhile.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Swallowing, Vili did as he was told. His father’s face carried none of its usual anger. Instead Hemming looked full of thought, even wistful. By the look of his clothes, the Jarl had been up all night and was yet to retire to bed. His voice was gruff when he spoke, though from too much talking or not enough, Vili could not tell.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“In spite of your best efforts to avoid your responsibilities, I trust Trygve has done his job of keeping you abreast of the troubles facing our clan?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Vili could feel his ears redden as he shifted his gaze towards the glowing embers of the fire. Now approaching his sixteenth winter, every chiding he received from his father seemed to carry an edge of bite that was not there before. Though he did not say it, it was obvious that Hemming’s tolerance for Vili’s disinterest in the duties of Jarldom grew thinner by the day.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Yes, father.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Good.” There was another long, thick silence that made Vili even more uncomfortable. The snow that had covered his hair and shoulders from outside was melting and trickled down his neck. Hemming poked at the fire, encouraging the stuttering flames to stay awhile longer.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“We are presented with an opportunity, my boy. One to settle our business in this unforgiving land once and for all. Ragnar Lothbrok has met his end in England at the hand of King Ælla of Northumbria.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“I know,” Vili said, nodding. “The skalds say he was thrown into a pit of vipers.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Aye, he was. A cowardly way to put a man to death.” Hemming jabbed the fire with a little too much vigour, spending sparks and glowing shards of firewood careening through the air. He swept them idly with his foot as they landed. “Ragnar has five sons: Halfdan, Bjorn, Sigurd, Ivarr, and Ubba. Warriors all. They travel across the fjords to stoke fury amongst the common folk and gather men to set sail for England. A war campaign to put right a treacherous wrong. We will put King Ælla in the cold ground and conquer all he holds dear. His people, his lands.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“We?” Vili repeated. The preceding hours he had spent with Astrid had made his mind thick and stupid, and he struggled to weave the threads of information Hemming presented into something that made sense. “You have already spoken with the Ragnarssons?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Hemming gave his son a shrewd look. “You might have known this, had you spent more time at the side of your Jarl and less with a bow and arrow in your hand.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>There it was again - that flicker of disappointment that Vili had not yet learned to steel himself against. He looked down at his muddy boots, thinking it better to stay silent than admit to his father that his latest twilight adventures did not involve hunting. Hemming’s eyes stayed hot for a moment on Vili’s face before he sighed. The sound held a weariness that felt heavier than a mere lack of sleep.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Our clan will set sail for England under the banner of the Ragnarssons before winter’s long fingers are upon us,” Hemming said. “If the Gods are with us, we will quell England and bend her children to our will. Her fertile lands will be ours to settle, her silver and gold ours to spend.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Vili did not respond. The implication of Hemming Jarl’s words was clear as crystal - win or lose, they would not return to Norway. A complex churn of emotions roiled his stomach. The feeling was not dissimilar to the thrill of jumping from the branches of a great tree, only for your belt to snag a branch mid-leap. Vili wondered if the winded sensation registered on his face, for when Hemming placed his hand on his son’s shoulder, it squeezed him tightly. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Men are forged in battle, my son, and few have the opportunity to begin their saga in such heat.” Hemming looked Vili in the eye, reading something deep within him that Vili did not yet have the words to describe. “You will be a better warrior for it, and in time, a better Jarl. I promise you this. Now,” he slapped the back of Vili’s shoulder blade to lurch him forward, “to bed with you.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>As Vili stood up and began to make his way to his room, Hemming turned. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Vili?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Yes?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Stay in our walls at night. You know some of the dangers that lie beyond them, but not all. I have promised the Ragnarssons my best men, and I intend to keep my word. Will you do this for me?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Vili nodded and bid his father goodnight, though both of them knew that by the next moon he would not have the willpower to keep his word.</em>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. Restless</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Vili is not a man who enjoys dwelling on his own thoughts. It is unusual, then, when an idea grips him so tightly that he cannot escape it. </p><p>
  <em>Restless.</em>
</p><p>He breathes deeply, focusing on a point in the longhouse's lofted wooden beams above him. Still the word darts in front of his eyes, whispers in his ear, circles his mind. It itches down his spine and leaves the soft furs beneath him feeling prickly. </p><p>
  <em>Restless.</em>
</p><p>It is an apt description of what life has become in Ravensthorpe, he supposes. Everything from the trees to the people are afflicted with a nervous energy, a feeling of change that sits on their shoulders and waits to consume them all. Summer yields to autumn. The crew grumble and bemoan the lengthening stretches between raids, blaming bad weather and preparation for winter. Eivor, who more often than not sleeps pressed against Vili’s chest, jolts awake in the night with increasing frequency. Sometimes it is no more than a moment before she sinks back down, gripping at his shoulder, anchoring herself against whatever disturbs her. Other times she sits bolt upright, as rigid as steel. It takes longer to convince her to settle.</p><p>And then there is Sigurd.</p><p>
  <em>Restless.</em>
</p><p>His return should have signalled peace, been a stopper on the swirling maelstrom the absence of a Jarl creates. But there is no calm in the waters around him, only chop. The undulation is near-on impossible to ignore when staying in the longhouse.</p><p>
  <em>Restless.</em>
</p><p>It is strangely noisy this morning. Vili is used to being awoken by a commotion (there are very few days in the barracks that begin without some loud incident involving shields and swords,) but today lacks the usual clang and bite. It is replaced instead by a low hum of angry voices, like the deep rumblings of an agitated beehive. Vili sits up, ignoring Mouse’s grumbles when he pushes her long snout off his thigh, and tunes his ears to the sounds beyond Eivor’s bedroom. The muted voices remind him, somewhat unpleasantly, of home. Not being able to pick apart a conversation from one’s room in the longhouse was usually a sign of trouble brewing. On mornings like this in Hemthorpe Vili would awake (usually with a thumping ale-induced headache) and be immediately swallowed into whatever business his father or Trygve had planned for him that day. It takes a couple of stern words with himself to remind him that that life is no longer his. </p><p>Indeed, there is no expectant soul awaiting his arrival when Vili walks into the hall. In fact, there is no one at all. The longhouse is calm and still, only filled with that growl of familiar voices coming from behind the throne. </p><p>“Eivor, this is madness,” an unseen Randvi hisses to a rhythmic groan of wood. Someone is pacing the floor. “You cannot expect the people to live their lives normally when they live in constant fear of -”</p><p>“Of what?” Eivor bites back, sounding as rough and brittle as bark. “Our laws are clear, as is our justice. I stand with Sigurd in all things, you know this.”</p><p>“Be that as it may, we do not live in a bubble. The alliances you have won in England are strong, but not iron wrought. You have read Sunniva and Norvid’s reports.”</p><p>Eivor laughs, but the sound is devoid of its usual kind warmth. “Disgruntled men telling stories in alehouses do not concern me.”</p><p>For a moment Vili considers turning and leaving. These kinds of fraught conversations are the very reason he shunned Jarldom - dealing with words and whispers, intangible threats that could not be cut down with a blade. But then again, these are not bumbling thegns, out to line their own pockets and serve their self-interest. These are his friends. And this is Eivor. Brutishly stubborn. Incorrigibly selfless to her clan. Sometimes to him. </p><p>The thought brings down a sudden, sharp realisation. In the time they have been reunited, not once has Eivor mentioned the burdens of her leadership to Vili. They fight, drink, spar, laugh, reminisce, but any talk of what it actually means to lead - to ensure no one goes hungry, that the people are safe, to build trust - goes unsaid. And yet, outside of his presence, she is consumed by little else.</p><p>He wonders if it is a choice to spare him or free her. Maybe it’s both. The idea settles in him with a stinging warmth caught between deep affection and embarrassment for not having realised it sooner. But strangely, he now wants to know. Vili never wanted those struggles for himself, but the desire to understand Eivor - to know her heart as well as she knows his - pulls at him like the tide. So he leans against a beam, careful to remain out of sight, and listens.</p><p>“It is only a matter of time before those stories about a cracked Jarl reach the longhouses and halls of every shire of England,” Randvi says in a clipped tone. </p><p>A new voice interjects, and Vili recognises it as Norvid. “Some already have. And we have more immediate worries. The merchants Sigurd Jarl, er, <em>alleviated</em> of their goods last week appear to have hired a band of mercenaries to claim them back.” There is a rustle of pages as they are passed from grip to grip.</p><p>“Our warriors are strong, but they cannot be on their guard at all times,” Sunniva says matter-of-factly. “And without any walls around us or lookouts on the roads...”</p><p>Sunniva’s sentence is cut short, and Eivor draws a long, heavy sigh.</p><p>“You lay my problems bare before me, knowing I do not have the solutions you seek.”</p><p>Vili does not need to be in the room to feel the sharp burn of Eivor’s words cutting through air like a blade fresh from the forge. There is weight in term, hard and heavy, and to Vili’s well-attuned ear he hears something raw at its core - a glint of grief, like a gemstone amidst rock, raw and exposed in the dullness. But to most, they will only hear the lidded anger, and this time Randvi is the first to crack until its pressure.</p><p>“We are not asking you to, drengr,” she says with the barest hint of sigh. “If you would only talk to Sigurd -”</p><p>There is a loud bang of a fist on wood, and a chorus of items toppling to the ground. “And what?” Eivor snaps. “Talk the madness out of him? Slip him sweet teas that make him forget his lost limb and scarred mind?”</p><p>No one is brave (or stupid) enough to needle her on the subject further. After a few moments of terse silence, Vili hears the creak of boots rocking over the floorboards, and a familiar flat tone that indicates Eivor is finished with the conversation. </p><p>“Sunniva, Norvid, see that there are two watches keeping an eye on the river and roads for bandits in the coming days. Rotate the crew over day and night, make sure no one gets too tired. Randvi, I will take care of the loose lipped men when I can. I have other places to be today.”</p><p>Eivor doesn’t see Vili as she storms out, shoulders as taut as a sail in the wind, walking with an intensity so hot that no one will dare interrupt her. Sunniva and Norvid eventually follow, and finally Randvi. The Jarl’s wife takes a few purposeful steps, then pauses. Vili can feel her eyes on his shadow.</p><p>“I should have known you would overhear some of that. This longhouse is a fine gathering place, but it is not known for its privacy.”</p><p>Vili shrugs as he finally peels himself from his secluded nook. Randvi is standing with one hand on the vacant throne, fingers worrying a wood-knot while her graze traces the path of Eivor and her scouts. “You are lucky it was me and not Sigurd,” Vili says nonchalantly. Randvi’s mouth twitches into a smile, in spite of her worry. </p><p>“There was little threat,” she assures. “Sigurd left with Basim in the early hours. A walk usually does him some good, though I am less sure about the company.” Randvi’s eyes flicker towards the longhouse’s bowed entryway. The morning is bright and clear, refreshingly crisp after another languid spell of late-summer heat. Her fingers raise off the throne just high enough to gesture outwards. </p><p>“To be honest, I myself feel the need to stretch my legs. Will you join me?”</p><p>When Vili nods, he is unsure who is more relieved to leave the longhouse, and the problems that lie in it, behind. </p><p>---</p><p>Randvi sets the pace and direction of their walk. There is something pleasant and easy about falling in step with another person, unfussed by a sense of purpose or place to go. And it feels good to breathe in the fresh air, earth-tinged and grassy as it is. Randvi seems bent on filling her lungs as much as possible.</p><p>If tolerating a closer proximity to Ravensthorpe’s throne is a necessary burden to Vili’s current living arrangement, his fledgling routines with Randvi are a welcome salve. He catches her most mornings alone in the hall, stealing a brief moment of peace before her time becomes a precious commodity. They eat and talk of light things - settlement chatter, skald stories. Strangely, it almost makes Vili miss home, the company and cajoling of Trygve in particular. </p><p>“Strange skies overhead, have you noticed?” Randvi juts her chin upwards and squints at a cluster of bruised clouds darkening the otherwise brilliant blue. “One moment they are heavy with rain, the next as bright and clear as freshwater. Last night I swear I could feel the first flecks of snow fall, though the trees are not yet ready to let go of their leaves.”</p><p>“If this surprises you, you have not lived long enough in England,” Vili chuckles, amused at her apparent naivety to such things. Maybe her complaining about never leaving the longhouse was founded after all. “Seasons mean little here beyond the coming and going of light. You can experience all weathers in a single day.”</p><p>Randvi fidgets with the brooch securing the sleek fox pelt to her shoulders, expression thoughtful. “Ah, that is good to know. I wondered if the swirling weather was a message from the Gods, but if this is a new normal, that brings some comfort.”</p><p>Vili slows his pace to turn and look at Randvi fully. Most who seek signs in the clouds are seafarers, sheepherders, or desperate. Randvi does not seem the type to give her thoughts over to the Gods so easily. “What could they be telling us?” he asks, curious.</p><p>Randvi does not answer immediately. She rocks onto her toes and turns slowly, eyes still searching the sky as if looking for the words themselves to fall from it. “Many things,” she finally says. “To be alert. Danger. Or the promise of calm seas after a storm. The heralding of the harvest.” She sighs, slow and deep through the nose. “I envy Valka’s talents, but not her responsibilities. It is difficult to tell people the truth behind things they see but cannot understand.”</p><p>“You seem to know some of these hardships yourself.”</p><p>This draws an amused snort. “Aye,” Randvi agrees as she leads them on further, beyond the beating heart of the settlement and into its rugged edges. The paths are quieter out here, decorated with yellow wildflowers and tufts of long grass that catch the wind. Straying this far means that whatever Randvi wants to say, she does not wish it to be overheard. She does little without purpose.</p><p>Eventually they reach a presumed destination. A small clearing, well-trodden but comfortably off the winding path, close enough to Ravensthorpe to hear its goings on but far enough away to not be followed. Randvi sits in the shade of a beautiful aspen and nods for Vili to follow. </p><p>“Some days I wonder if I am going mad,” she says softly as Vili sits down. “What I see and hear, what I think, what I want, what I believe - never have they all been in such conflict. Maybe the uneasy skies are not so much a message, and more a curse across all of England.” Her hand twitches over the leather tie holding her braid in place, fraying the soft ends. “You know, I cannot say I have heard of any Jarl or King who rules happily here.”</p><p>“England is a fractured, infant land. It pains like a babe teething,” Vili replies, and when Randvi’s eyebrow quirks, adds: “something my father would say. One day, it will settle.” </p><p>“I am worried that we do not have such time.” Randvi’s words give voice to something that Vili does not wish to hear, the same restless feeling that stirred uneasy within him as he lay alone in Eivor’s bed. He suppresses a frown and looks away while Randvi’s expectant eyes burn on his face. “I was hoping you might speak to Eivor about Sigurd. You have already heard my attempt to get through to her.”</p><p>“And tell her what?” Vili’s voice is flat and sharp, more brutish than he intends. “Her eyes and ears are as keen as ours. I will tell her nothing she does not already know.”</p><p>“That this settlement is not the same place that Sigurd left before he was captured. We are larger than the band that sailed from Norway, more diverse. Not everyone knows the man he was before he left for Miklagard. Eivor was the only person Sigurd truly listened to then. She can be that again. She must be.”</p><p>Vili is slow to answer. Irritation burns in his chest, coating his lungs in sooty bitterness. He is not angry at Randvi - her only crime is speaking the truth - yet there is nowhere else for the ire to go. He folds his arms and picks his next words carefully.</p><p>“I left my home to escape the politicking of the longhouse. I have no desire to be drawn into this mess between Eivor and Sigurd. It is not my place.”</p><p>Evidently, Vili’s response is not what Randvi had hoped for, and she does not hide her disappointment. “You counsel Eivor in all manner of things,” she points out, lips thin. “You helped us plan the siege of Portcestre.”</p><p>“All manner of things specifically related to warcraft and siege tactics.” This seems, to Vili, an important distinction. “I know my strengths. They do not lie in diplomacy.”</p><p>“You can think of this as a battle of wills if that makes it sweeter, or a threat to you and the war band you serve in. What it truly is is neither here nor there.”</p><p>“Isn’t it?” Vili snaps, the wave of irritation swirling around his ribs finally reaching shore. “Because Sigurd is still our Jarl and your husband. You fool yourself to think this situation can be made so simple.”</p><p>Silence falls between them and Randvi looks away, a frown still etched deep on her features. But after a moment she sighs. Her expression becomes more open, less knotted, as if she has made up her mind about something that has troubled her for far longer than the length of this conversation.</p><p>“I know ours is a friendship newly hatched, but I feel I can trust you Vili. And knowing how much faith Eivor puts in you, I know that trust is not misplaced.” Randvi’s grass green eyes swivel to Vili and she runs one hand over the other, threading her fingers together in a tight lattice. “May I share something with you?”</p><p>“Of course.”</p><p>“When I first joined the Raven Clan, I seldom saw Eivor smile. At first I thought that was just her disposition - serious, only wishing to show the warmth to those who earned it. But over time I saw more and more of her wit, her fun. I saw her love for her brother and her clan. And when we arrived in England, I thought…” There is more wringing of hands, shuffling of fingers, knotting of knuckles. “I thought that she might find some small place in her heart for me, just as she had burrowed her way into mine.”</p><p>It is a heavy admission in every sense of the word; the emotional weight Randvi has carried on her own, and the crushing pressure it must have placed upon her position between her husband and his sister. Vili opens his mouth - to say what he isn’t quite sure - but Randvi shakes her head, dispelling any pleasantry before the words can come to his tongue. </p><p>“I do not tell you this for sympathy,” she says shortly. “It was a fleeting fantasy, I know. She would never break her brother’s trust. I thought, for a time, that this was the only barrier to her affections. But then she read your name on those summons. I watched her face as she did it.” Randvi smiles, small and bittersweet. “That was the moment when I realised that there are places in Eivor that I will never reach.”</p><p>Vili doesn’t know what to say to that either. If Randvi’s admission of unrequited affection had shocked like ice water, what comes after is freezing itself, making all parts of Vili numb and stiff. Randvi’s words carry untold meaning and shroud ideas Vili has, for the most part, refused to entertain. That this restlessness he feels, this pull, is more than the unsteady symptom of two friends finding their place at each other’s side again after so many winters apart. That maybe it is something different, new. And maybe Eivor feels it too. Maybe.</p><p>Randvi clears her throat, and the noise is enough to bring Vili’s focus back to the now. “She does not wish to betray Sigurd’s authority, nor overstep her mark at his side,” she says. “But when he is weak, we are all weak. And if Eivor cannot restore him, I worry this land will correct the balance for us. Do you understand this?”</p><p>Randvi’s revelation still crystallising his thoughts, Vili grunts. “I do, but I still cannot do what you ask. It is not my place.” </p><p>Randvi’s brow dips, and for a split second Vili wonders if she intends to argue with him again. But then she places a hand on his shoulder, and the tension in her melts away. </p><p>“Please, Vili.” Her voice is stripped of all pretence, leaving the words plain and exposed. She looks almost tired as her hand squeezes through his thick leather armour. “I am a proud woman, but I am not above begging for the right cause. And by all the Gods, these people deserve the life Sigurd and Eivor promised them.”</p><p>Randvi is right, in the way that only a person who is practised at untying the business of feeling and doing can be. None of this must be without pain for her, Vili knows. It is an admirable, almost enviable quality - one he could never quite master, in spite of his father and Trygve’s many harangued attempts to teach him, and the thought draws a low chuckle out of him. Randvi drops her hand, eyes narrowing.</p><p>“Is something funny?”</p><p>Vili does his best to quell the inappropriate amusement on his face. “I am imagining what my father might say if he were here to see me now. How sweet the irony would taste, knowing that in turning my back on Hemthorpe’s seat, I find myself looking towards Ravensthorpe’s. A different relationship to the throne, yes, but it seems that no matter where I go, I am no less tied by the ropes and knots of Jarldom.”</p><p>Randvi does not laugh. Her face is still as she observes him, eyes alight with thoughts she does not share. “If you truly seek freedom, you should know that you will not find it here, nor in any other place you might call home,” she says carefully. “And certainly not at Eivor’s side. No man is ever truly free unless he walks alone. It is not a sacrifice most are willing to make.”</p><p>Though it goes unspoken, the autumn breeze passing through Mercia cannot blow away the question that hangs in the air between them.</p><p>
  <em>Are you?</em>
</p><p>---</p><p>When Randvi leaves to return to the longhouse, Vili does not follow. The day is too bright to linger indoors, yet the docks do not hold their usual appeal. Not with a mind so full of distractions. Eydis has an excellent eye for such things, and all manner of ways of knocking a Jomsvikingr’s head clean of his own thoughts if she so chooses.</p><p>So he ambles, content to see where his feet take him. Vili does not miss many of Snotinghamscire’s wet and frozen charms, but today he longs for the quiet calm of Kinder Downfall. The solitude, the sound of rushing water, the view of the hills and the ability to see a man approach long before he can see you. His intention is not to seek out company. So when he stumbles upon Sigurd, alone and on the outskirts of woodland with an axe in hand, Vili almost considers doubling back. </p><p>Looking at Sigurd from this angle, Vili can just about trick himself into seeing something that is not there. Sigurd, clear eyed and focussed, aiming the axe before letting it sail, the evidence of his injury hidden from view. A sight Vili has seen countless times as a teen, when Sigurd’s monstrous throw was a point of pride as much as a way to impress girls. For a brief moment, it is easy to forget all that has happened since.</p><p>But then the axe hits the target. It splinters the wood and sticks, but the sound is weak, and Vili can tell it does not penetrate deeply. He approaches with a small cough, letting Sigurd know he is not alone. The Jarl does not turn.</p><p>“For the injury you have, that was a fine throw, though you will need to push more of your weight through your foot to kill a man with it,” Vili says as he walks to inspect the blade. The hit, while shallow, is square with the bullseye. He nudges the axe and lets it fall to the ground with a limp thud. “This was a mere tickle.”</p><p>Sigurd meets Vili with a look as quiet and muted as thick morning fog before chuckling, his remaining hand flexing and twisting to keep his wrist supple. “I had forgotten your skill with the axe,” he says with as much good nature as Vili has heard in weeks. “The hours and hours you and Eivor would throw them, playing in your contests. Always trying to best one another.”</p><p>Perhaps Randvi was right - time spent with Basim, for better or worse, seems to have lifted Sigurd’s spirits. Vili smiles and feels the sharp wariness he has carried in Sigurd’s presence for weeks lift slightly.</p><p>“As I remember, you would come along and beat us both with no effort at all,” Vili says. “Then the game would be ruined, and we would run off sulking to play with hunting knives instead.” He flexes a fist to prove his point and watches fondly as half a dozen small, milk-white scars jut from his knuckles. Neither he nor Eivor had been particularly skilful at avoiding the knife’s cutting edge in those days, and both have the marks to prove it.</p><p>He stays with Sigurd awhile, watching him practice, throwing a couple of axes himself. It has been a while since Vili has thrown at a target, but he is happy to see that the technique comes back to him quickly. Conversation is light, trained to the task at hand and superficially reminiscent of times in Norway, but pleasant. Vili wonders if there might be some good Basim’s idiosyncratic droning, if it can unlock a moment of peace in Sigurd’s stormy mind. </p><p>In the pauses between throws, Sigurd’s remaining hand drifts mindlessly. Sometimes it skates over the place where his other arm used to be; other times it grips his opposite bicep. His knuckles blanch as they press into the flesh.</p><p>“Does it hurt?” Vili asks when the action becomes too frequent to be ignored. “I have known men who swear they can still feel their limbs long after they have been hewn from their bodies. Fire burns where fingers once were, or they suffer itches that cannot be soothed.”</p><p>Sigurd regards Vili with a sharp look before replacing it with a far-off, grimacing smile. “Yes, it does,” he says, tone drifting into something more dissonant on the ear, “but it does not bother me. If my experiences in this land have taught me anything, it is that agonies are necessary to forge our path to our true destiny. After all, destruction is a part of creation, is it not?” He drops the axe in his hand and gestures around them, to the thick curls of smoke rising into the sky, to Ravensthorpe. “We burn wood to make charcoal, cut trees and dig up the root so we may make homes and sleep with a roof over our heads. You and I are not exempt from those cycles. We dream of falling in battle so we may enter Valhalla, but a glorious death will do little to numb the pain of a twist of steel when it pierces your skin and scrambles your guts.”</p><p>With every word Sigurd speaks, he seems to fall deeper and deeper into the cracks of that mad, glass-eyed place so many have come to fear. Vili looks at his friend, looks at the way he holds what is left of his arm, and is blanketed by sadness. Sigurd could be cut from root to stem and the madness would still not be sliced out. </p><p>“Not a comforting thought,” Vili says, thinking it is better to leave it at that then try to bring Sigurd back to the surface. How can you help a man who does not know he drowns?</p><p>Sigurd picks up his fallen axe and tosses it in the air. It turns, heavy blade drawing groundward, and Sigurd grasps once more where wood meets metal. “All these things to relearn,” he mutters to himself, no longer in front of Vili, but somewhere else entirely. “I wonder if any of it will be worthwhile.”</p><p>
  <em>‘No man is ever truly free unless he walks alone.’ </em>
</p><p>Randvi’s words echo in Vili’s head, but watching Sigurd, a one-time friend now painfully alone in company, Vili can see no freedom. Only bonds of another kind. </p><p>The truth, he decides, must be somewhere in the greying middle. </p><p>---</p><p>“Are you listening to me?”</p><p>“Hmm?”</p><p>Eivor looks over her shoulder at Vili sprawled over the bed while she carefully unbuckles her bracers and places them on the bench at its foot. She isn’t truly annoyed, the bitten-down smile betrays that, but to not feign a little displeasure at his absent mind would be a missed opportunity. Vili is alert enough to realise this, and quick enough to avoid the boot that comes flying towards his head a moment later.</p><p>The nights have grown longer since Eivor returned from Eurvicscire in a way that has nothing to do with the incoming caress of autumn. It is a strange phenomenon, a unique seidr that makes time becomes languid and lithe when the curtain is drawn. They fill hours talking, bickering, dipping into memories old and new with the hungry glee of children sneaking sweets from the feast hall. Making up for lost time, they call it. </p><p>And the rest? Well, that has yet to be given a name.</p><p>Somewhere between the sticky heat of summer and the first of Ravensthorpe’s leaves turning gold, their childish pretence of poking and prodding had fallen away, shed to leave a quiet comfort in touch. Their closeness no longer felt like something stolen or out of place, but welcome. Needed, even. </p><p>That said, it did come with its own challenges. Pushing a boundary inevitably leads to the testing of others. Had Vili had more foresight, he might have been more cautious, might have thought the consequences through. That had never been his strong suit. Even just watching Eivor carefully unbuckle and de-lace her layers of weaponry and belting and armour leaves him feeling, well, restless.</p><p>It takes Mouse nipping at his hand which hangs closest to the floor for Vili to realise that Eivor is still watching him. </p><p>“Sorry,” Vili says hurriedly, racking his brain for a thread of meaning to tie Eivor’s words together. “You were telling me something about Bertham and Mayda?” Armour and weapons discarded, Eivor sinks down onto the bed, pulling herself chest-to-chest with Vili as she does so. </p><p>“Only that I have spent my day running from one side of Ravensthorpe to another, between farm and house, trying to build bridges so their warring parents can settle their differences.” She reaches up to push Vili’s hair out of his face gently. “I wonder if some stories are destined to repeat themselves forever. The troubles of young lovers and the guardians who keep them apart, wishing for them to make different choices.”</p><p>Eivor’s words are not so much an expressed thought as they are a nudge at the door into their shared memories. First loves, their fathers, and all the fighting that had happened in between. There is an expectancy in the pitch of her eyebrows and slant of her mouth, anticipation for Vili to pull the door open fully, but tonight he can’t. “Aye, all children are pawns of their parents for a time,” he mutters, resigned to his lack of focus.</p><p>Even in the soft glow of candlelight, Vili can see Eivor’s eyes sharpening on him. “What’s on your mind?” she asks, because asking if something is bothering him would be a moot question. She taps a knuckle against his temple before smoothing the pad of her finger over the scar there, tracing its path into his eyebrow. “I worry you will injure yourself thinking too hard.”</p><p>For a brief moment, it crosses Vili’s mind how much easier it would be to lean in and kiss her right now, give in to the weight of her on top of him, grounding and dizzying all at once. To turn their attentions to the little sparks that neither have put to words yet - the tightening of Eivor’s grip on his skin, the not-entirely-accidental press of her thigh in between his legs, the rub of skin and cloth that strips their secrets and leave the rough grit of want bare - but Eivor’s look is such that she will not let the topic go. So Vili indulges. </p><p>“Spending more time in the longhouse gives me more to think about,” he says. “There is little to be found at the docks besides talk of fighting, drinking, or fucking. Sometimes all three at once.”</p><p>“Oh?” Eivor smiles bemusedly. “Do not tell me your nights here make you miss the machinations of leadership.”</p><p>“Of course not. But I am not deaf to the goings on.” Vili looks at Eivor, savouring the easy sight of her while rueing the next words he must say. “I heard you all around the alliance map a the other morning, discussing Sigurd. Randvi is not wrong, you know. Sigurd’s moods are like frozen dew - they soak everything in this settlement with harsh cold. A Jarl the people no longer recognise is an easy target, and an easy target makes for a weak alliance.”</p><p>As Vili speaks, Eivor’s expression changes like rolling weather. Surprise, hurt, anger; all passing over her in quick succession. She slips off Vili and sits on the edge of the bed, shoulders tight, pushing against the sudden ache that settles around her. The change from the woman Vili knows into the Eivor the skalds write songs about is swift and brutal.</p><p>“And what of me? Am I an easy target? Is the war band I have built?”</p><p>“No. But -”</p><p>“Did Trygve ever disagree with your father?”</p><p>Vili gives her a pointed look and draws himself up to a sitting position. “You know he did. Often.”</p><p>“And did he voice those differences of opinion in public?” </p><p>Eivor wields her arguments like a battering ram, intent to break down whatever obstacles are in front of her. “No, but my father was not Sigurd, and you are not Trygve,” Vili says firmly. “The people of my clan knew my father, knew his heart and intentions. He had their trust. The same cannot be said for Sigurd as Ravensthorpe grows.”</p><p>Eivor’s fists curl tightly against the furs beneath her, knuckles pale and bony. “When you first came here, you pledged to trust Sigurd and I no matter what faced us.” Her voice is like broken glass. “Are you recanting that promise?”</p><p>It is such a wild, baseless question that Vili almost wants to laugh, and would have had Eivor’s face not been so coloured with anger. But this fury isn’t the kind that is cooled with an apology and smooth words - no, it has roots. Deep, dark, hidden. </p><p>“No, you mulish idiot,” he snaps, voice rising to meet hers. “I will follow you both until the Valkyries come for me. But I am no fool, and not so dull of my senses that I cannot see that you hide something. You do not challenge Sigurd, and you allow the clan to be seen as weak in the process. Yet still you ride to far-flung shires to secure alliances. Your name carries you far, but how long will your stories ring louder than that of your Jarl’s? When will Ravensthorpe’s war band weaken without walls or battlements built? Will your army of one be enough to guarantee the people their safety?”</p><p>He wants, more than anything in that moment, for Eivor to give him answers. As angry as they may be; as flawed, foolish or fallible. Because the not knowing is worse. </p><p>And for a flickering second, he believes she might. Eivor’s eyes dance with the same chaos as they did in Portcestre. Fear, fury, knowing. That shard of wildness which has so often brought her glory, that draws her to the worrying edge of self-destruction. But then it is gone, and she is closed off to him, silent and still as stone. Time no longer stretches her long fingers around them. The curtain billows and sinks with the world’s problems, straining against what can no longer be kept out of the room. </p><p>Randvi was right. Closing his eyes to this, to her, was never really an option. </p><p>Vili stands, pulling on his boots and cloak with practised efficiency. Only Mouse whines a low protest.</p><p>“Where are you going?” Eivor asks. She does not meet his eye. He may be imagining it, but Vili lets himself think that there is the slightest hint of a plea in her voice. He leans over and plants his hands on either side of her thighs, watching her face. It is still hard, unyielding, even to him.</p><p>“To the docks. I left Snotinghamscire because I could not stomach the thought of navigating the quiet spaces between thegns for the rest of my life. Little pockets full of secrets, bartered and exchanged beneath tables, all for a crumb of power or influence. The barracks hold no secrets. They are bare, honest.” </p><p>He has never told Eivor that before. In the north, the simple protestation of wishing to roam had seemed easier, and not untrue either. He knows how silence poisons, corrodes the good and the honest. Eivor’s fingers flex and her eyes flicker upwards to meet him. Her look is too intense to be anything but intentional. Hard and icy, but there is something else there too - a deep, raw hurt.</p><p>Vili leans forward, pressing his lips to Eivor’s forehead, and is surprised when she doesn’t recoil. “I do not begrudge you only sharing parts of your mind with me, but I cannot stay when there are untold things between us,” he admits. “With most, I can stand it. But not with you.”</p><p>It is only when Vili makes his way through the smoky haze of the longhouse does he consider that, in trying to coax Eivor to open her heart, he has exposed his further. </p><p>---</p><p>Like most nights, Vili can hear Birna and Rollo before he sees them. The pair sit by the edge of the dock, perched on overturned barrels, faces half-lit by lanterns as they look upriver. For a moment Vili considers slipping past them and into the raider’s lodgings - by the sounds of it neither are entirely sober, and he doesn’t feel like explaining his sudden change of accommodations tonight - but the topic of their conversation soon gives him pause. Birna’s voice, unsurprisingly, is the louder of the two. </p><p>“Rattling bones shouldn’t be the objective of lovemaking, you dolt. Women are not like men. You cannot strike them like a hammer on hot iron and expect them to sing.”</p><p>Rollo scoffs while drumming an absent beat on his leg. “That is exactly what I expect them to do. And I’ve heard no complaints.”</p><p>“Whores are not paid to complain. If they did they’d never see your silver again,” Birna teases, rolling her eyes as if this is the most obvious thing in the world. “You might know the movements, little brother, but pleasing a woman is an art form. A lesson in patience, one where her whole body is the canvas, and your mouth and hands are the brush. You have to -”</p><p>Vili’s boots creaking on the dock give his presence away, but seeing Rollo flush and squirm when he shouts, “look who it is!” is worth the interruption. Birna, for her part, looks utterly unphased. </p><p>“What are you both doing out here?” Vili grins, taking the bottle they share when it is offered and taking a swig. Old Saxon wine, by the vinegary taste of it.</p><p>“Watching the river for bandit ships.” Birna replies cheerfully, taking the bottle back without question from Vili’s outstretched grasp. “We could ask the same of you. Was it the wolf or the Wolf-Kissed who has chased you away from the longhouse tonight?”</p><p>Vili eyes them both. The raiders have been fairly quiet to date about Eivor and Vili’s sleeping arrangements, if just because none wished to press Eivor wrongly with all that was going on. But when left to their own devices, Vili knows that gossip and hearsay spreads through the crew faster than fever. </p><p>“Neither,” he answers simply. It is easier than trying to dispel Birna’s underlying implication. If anything, denial of anything going on between him and Eivor only seems to egg them on further.</p><p>“A lover’s quarrel then?” Birna crows, stroking the cross-cross scar lining her jaw in thought. “I wonder what over.”</p><p>“Cold feet in the bed,” Rollo suggests, “or snoring too loudly.”</p><p>“Who-won-what sparring match. They love to bicker over that.”</p><p>“What about the argument they had coming back from our last raid? The one they would not let die until we returned to Mercian waters. Something about spearing a Standard Bearer and stealing glory.”</p><p>“Never mind that, but talking of who spears who -”</p><p>“Have this crew nothing better to gossip about?” Vili asks tiredly, ignoring the loud laughter of his friends as he finds his own barrel to perch on. “Please, go back to whatever conversation you were having before my arrival. Something about Rollo’s lack of ability to please a woman, if I heard correctly.”</p><p>“I am not the one who has been thrown out of a warm bed tonight,” Rollo growls as Birna cackles. In spite of their jabs, it is good to speak to Birna and Rollo alone. Tensions have been so fraught lately that it is rare to catch them both in good spirits at the same time. </p><p>“Sunniva told us that there are mercenaries looking to attack us,” Rollo says, gesturing two fingers towards the river churn. Vili nods slowly and remembers what he overheard in the longhouse.</p><p>“Revenge for Sigurd Jarl’s confiscation of the merchant fleet’s spoils.”</p><p>“A bad business.” Birna shakes her head, eyebrows knitted together in a frown. “Lif tells me that every merchant in Grantebridge has heard what happened. Won’t come near Ravensthorpe for fear of losing their wares. At least I think that’s what he meant. The man writes everything in fucking verse, it’s not always the clearest.”</p><p>“Yanli’s felt it too,” Rollo grunts. “Have you been in her shop recently? The shelves are almost bare.”</p><p>The three share a moment of silence, reflecting on the situation they find themselves in as the river’s current hums low and gentle around them. The danger they guard against tonight feels like the papercut that distracts from a sword blow. </p><p>Eventually, Birna cranes her neck to look at Vili. “Eivor is alright, isn’t she?”</p><p>“You could ask her yourself.”</p><p>“And what? Hear a cloth-wrapped answer?” Birna chuckles again and shakes her head. “I served Soma for long enough to know that the person who leads is not the same as the person who is your friend. Truth to one is not truth to the other. That is the way of things if you wish to run a tight ship.”</p><p>Though Birna would have no way of knowing, the idea of Eivor willingly shutting off a part of herself to him stings Vili deeply. He inhales, worrying on the thought for a fraction longer than is comfortable before nudging Rollo’s ribs. </p><p>“Do you agree with this?”</p><p>“I suppose,” Rollo muses, glancing down at his palms. “Sometimes you have to tell your people a truth that is not their present, but their future. You make it so through your words. Those who follow you cannot see it otherwise, and will not achieve it.” He speaks with the wearied tone of a man much older than nineteen winters, roughened and wizened by experience. Not for the first time, Vili must remind himself of Rollo’s true age.</p><p>When Birna and Rollo continue to look at Vili imploringly, he finally reels back to the original question. “Eivor is fine,” he says with a shrug. “Strong. A little overworked, but just thankful Sigurd is restored to where he belongs.” It is a version of the truth, caught somewhere between Birna and Rollo’s interpretations. Vili watches as the pair glance towards each other, but no further questions come. Rollo drains the last of the sour wine and grins.</p><p>“I hope she talks of more interesting things when you plow her than being overworked. Odin’s balls, that would be boring.”</p><p>Vili catches the irritated sigh on his lips, but not before Rollo and Birna are both keeled over laughing. “For the last time, that is not how it is.” He eyes Birna and kicks the barrel she sits on, nearly dislodging her from it entirely. “There is only one of us who would so happily plow their friends.”</p><p>To Vili’s surprise, Birna looks almost affronted by the suggestion. “I would not!” she cries, and taking a moment to watch Rollo and Vili exchanging knowing looks, adds an exasperated “what?”</p><p>“A barefaced lie!” Rollo howls, holding his sides.</p><p>“More like a word-spun loophole,” Vili points to the clever smirk on the corner of Birna’s lips. “A lack of cock makes the plower no less able.”</p><p>Birna’s smile grows longer, wider, and more wicked. “Hmm, I suppose you are right,” she says in a lofty sort of way. “A farmer sows seeds just as well with their fingers as they do with their tools. Which brings me back to my original point, Rollo...”</p><p>Vili leaves Birna and Rollo to their watch, but only after watching Birna torture poor Rollo for a few more long, agonising minutes (“How would you do it? Show me. Really? Oh no, that will not do. You curl your fingers, see? <em>Gently</em>. You are not stuffing a sow for roasting.”) They are a fun distraction, but lying back in the threadbare lodgings, there is little Vili can do to stop his mind drifting back to Eivor. Her heat. Her mouth. The bite of her words and the ice of her eyes. Pulling away, drawing near. </p><p>
  <em>Restless.</em>
</p><p>---</p><p>
  <em>“How are you, Vili?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Vili looked towards Trygve, wary of the question. It was strange enough that he had invited Vili to go fishing when the clan was so busy preparing for their upcoming departure. Getting a read on the older man’s expression had never been too difficult - Trygve was worse than Hemming at hiding an ulterior motive, and a heavy brow sweat or trembling lip usually gave him away. But today Vili could see no such signs, so he shrugged, looking back to the finishing line wrapped around his hands.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Fine. The ships are coming along nicely, and I have been overseeing the blacksmith in his work creating our weapons for the journey. The farmlands still suffer with poor soil after the winter frost but -”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“I meant how are you feeling?” Trygve cut in, eyebrow arched. “About England, I mean.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Vili stared at the rippling pond in front of them for a moment, unsure how to respond. He was well used to Trygve drilling him with all manner of questions, usually to test how much he had actually been listening during his lessons, but this seemed unusual of his father’s most trusted advisor.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>He let the question hang in the air, hoping Trygve would feel the weight of silence and change tact. But to Vili’s chagrin, Trygve seemed more than happy to wait. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“I… I do not know,” Vili finally answered, cracking under the quiet. “I did not think a person could feel so many different emotions at once until now.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Trygve tugged at his own line to rebait, nodding thoughtfully. “Sometimes your body holds the key to understanding your hugr. What does it tell you?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“My body?” Vili repeated, hearing thick scepticism coat his words without cause. Trygve’s eyebrow quirked once more, and Vili sighed. Short of a giant trout leaping from the water and swallowing Trygve whole, there would be no escaping this line of questioning.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Most days I feel fine. My pulse quickens when I see the ships take shape. It feels like progress, potential. But my chest tightens when I walk around Stavanger. I try to commit as many streets and faces to my memory as I can, for I do not know when I will see them next. Some nights I am so tired I feel I may sleep through ten nights in a row. Others I lie awake until Sól begins her dance across the sky.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Trygve grunted, running a hand through his scraggly beard. The patchy hair was beginning to show its first signs of greying at the chin. “Your mother and father would come to this spot when they were young, you know,” he said after a long pause, gesturing towards the glittering water by their feet. “They both enjoyed fishing, though your mother never cared for using a line. She would rather wade in the waters and spear the fish as they swam past her legs.” Trygve’s face cracked and lined in a forlorn smile. “I have thought of her often these past few weeks. What she might have thought of this endeavour.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>For a moment, Vili no longer felt the fishing line in his grip. Talk of his mother was so rare it always sent a hot, uneasy feeling careening through his gut; something caught between fear and longing, a sensation he did not trust but leaned into all the same. The pond was quiet and secluded, a small walk from the settlement, where only the sound of wind-whipped water over stones filled the air. Vili tried to picture her here: a tall, raven-haired woman with a lyrical voice, submerged to the calf with spear in hand, deadly and elegant when she struck. The body came easily to his mind’s eye - he had watched Eivor hunting for long enough to know what grace looked like when stalking an animal - but her face was muted and indistinct. Vili wished it wasn’t.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>A sudden tug on the line broke Vili’s reverie and he swore, yanking the rope to hook in the fish. It came without too much fight, and as Vili placed it in a nearby basket, he realised that Trygve had left his thought unfinished. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“...And? What would she have thought about going to England?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“She had a strange taste in fruit, you know,” Trygve said as if he had not heard Vili’s question. “While most of us would wait for berries to ripen to the peak of sweetness before plucking them from the bramble, she would prefer to eat them with a tinge of green. A small dose of sourness was needed to balance the sweet, she said.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Pushing down the ache in his chest, Vili furrowed his brow. These thoughts were unrelated, strange. Had the thought of leaving scrambled Trygve’s mind without anyone noticing?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“What does my mother’s taste in berries have to do with war?” Though he didn’t intend it, Vili heard the edge of his frustration bleed through.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Trygve’s old eyes glinted as they cast a sideways glance at Vili. “We cannot have anything in life without balance, my boy. England holds opportunity for us all - battle, glory, fertile soil and silver. But we cannot receive this without some sourness. Saying goodbye to places and people that have been good to us.” Then his eyes turned misty, and like the soft gurgle of water, travelled far beyond where the two men stood. “Your father sees a dark cloud over this land that you do not. It has haunted him since your mother died. I worry he cannot separate memories of the good from the bad. But it is natural to feel pulled in many different directions in times of change. To not know where your mind wishes to settle. Even if your father’s is firmly pointed towards England.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Though Vili would not say it, Trygve’s words were as warm as a firepit in the depths of winter. They soaked into him, into his heart, and for the first time in a long time, he felt seen. Not as a Jarl’s son or a disobedient troublemaker (though he was indisputably both), but as a young man caught between two worlds with no solid footing in either. Drifting along a course steered by others; too young to push back against the current but old enough to know his own heart. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Vili had never thought of Trygve as anything other than an old head; a man who would rather see the venison properly cured and salted for winter than experience the thrill of hunting the deer. But watching his face, Vili was struck by the thought that Trygve might have been young once, and maybe like him. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>For a moment, Vili considered thanking Trygve for his counsel. But knowing if he did he might never hear the end of it, settled for: “don’t let my father hear you say that. My scattered mind is a perpetual source of anguish if you are to be believed.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Trygve’s growling laugh, Vili would later claim, is what scared away the fish for the rest of the afternoon.</em>
</p>
  </div></div>
</body>
</html>